


Crooked

by AmandaHuffleduck



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Blood, Blood and Gore, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Procedures, Prison cliches ahoy, RPF, Slow Burn, Surgery, Violence, so slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-04-14 20:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 83,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4579530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmandaHuffleduck/pseuds/AmandaHuffleduck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something doesn't add up about one of the new inmates. (A Hiddlesworth Prison AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetad.
> 
> Stay on your toes: tags may change.
> 
> The 'waiting-until-something-is-finished-before-posting' approach isn't working, so let's try something else.

Of the ten new prisoners being escorted along the cat-walk - the covered walkway that ran the length of the exercise yard between the loading bay and processing station - one in particular stood out. Not because he was taller than anyone else, including the guards, or that he was the only white man amongst the column of cuffed, grey-uniformed ‘fresh meat’, but because of what was going on with his head.

Shaving one side of one’s head was considered terribly hip in some sectors, but the bottle cap sized metal disk shining out of the flesh of his left temple, coupled with the dark blue numbered tattoo stretching from there to the outer edge of his thick, fair eyebrow indicated a neural implant, one designed to block a psionic’s access to their ability.

“The blond with the limiter.” Tom murmured to the man slouching on his right, without taking his eyes off the new prisoner. “Let it be known that that’s mine.”

“You sure, boss?” The weathered brown face screwed up in doubt. “Can’t never trust a psycher, even with their mojo locked down.”

“There’s always a market for pretty white-boy arse.” Tom answered absently, busy studying the man’s shambling gait, the way his head hung down. He was on some heavy duty tranqs. 

“If you say so.” 

Tom’s jaw tightened at being questioned but it really wasn’t worth the effort issuing a reprimand. ‘Rowdy’ Ron Turner was insubordinate but useful. He accepted Tom’s authority and did his bidding but felt no hesitation in saying what he thought. He was fond of saying he’d been alive too long to care about watching his mouth anymore, but his squashed nose, missing teeth and mismatched cheekbones led Tom to suspect he hadn’t cared much about ‘watching his mouth’ from a young age.

Turner’s lack of respect irritated Joachim Pasquale, the younger man standing at not-quite parade rest on Tom’s left. The only reason Joachim - Jack - hadn’t acted on his irritation was because Tom clearly didn’t consider the short, old twat worth bothering with. Besides, Turner’s contrary nature would only make him do and say worse if someone tried to pull him in to line

Tom half-turned to Jack, waiting for the inclination of his head that meant he was listening closely.

“See what you can find out about him.”

“Righto, sir.”

“Take some chocolate.”

“Captain.”

The honorific wasn’t merely a courtesy. Tom had served eight years in her Majesty’s forces, including a couple of tours being shot at by ungrateful pricks in a god-forsaken country that only seemed to grow rocks and venomous insects. He’d come out of the army with a Captaincy and a back injury that had got him a medical discharge but it wasn’t a time he remembered fondly. He was a natural leader, yes, but not a natural soldier. At least it had kept him out of bloody investment banking.

“Chocolate?” Turner hooted as his colleague left. “She’d be more interested in his dick. Or his fingers. Or his tongue.” He gleefully mimed the crude actions, which Tom ignored, still musing on the blond, who had by now passed along with the rest of the new inmates into reception. 

“What’s he doing here?” Tom wondered aloud. “Why isn’t he in the psycher institution?” 

“Maybe they run outta space?” Rowdy shrugged. “Maybe he’s so bad other psychers don’ want him around? Who knows how those fuckers think.”

Tom nodded sharply at his lieutenant. 

“Go and pass the word around. I’m serious about him not being touched.”

“Yes, Captain!” 

Turner’s salute was sloppy and obviously mocking but Tom merely quirked an eyebrow and let it go.

~~~oOo~~~

Jack caught up with them an hour later in the rec room, seated at one of the scuffed wooden tables bolted to the floor. Tom was reading; Rowdy was practising trick card shuffles. He sniffed ostentatiously at the waft of sweet perfume Jack brought with him.

“Did she like the, ahem, _chocolate_?” Rowdy leered. 

Jack’s returning look was flat and unfathomable.

“What have we got?” Tom closed the book, marking his place with a tattered postcard of the Brighton Pavilion.

“Man’s called Christopher Hemsworth, Captain. In for life, for murder.”

“Abilities?”

“Bog standard telepath, sir; touch of low-level empathy. No healing, no kinetics, none of the ‘seeing’ skills.”

Tom tapped a finger on the cover of his book.

“That’s what’s on the paperwork. Anything unofficial?” 

“Unofficially.” Jack lowered his voice and leant in. “Lisa heard the man Hemsworth killed was a high-up muckety-muck where he worked.”

“Which was?”

“Wings Foundation. He’s a psi-trainer.”

Tom nodded - he knew the Wings Foundation, a charitable organisation dedicated to providing expert training for psionic’s from lower socio-economic areas – then frowned.

“The trials already happened and he’s been sentenced. Why hasn’t the media got wind of it? The anti-psychers would be all over this.”

“Somebody wants it to disappear?” Rowdy offered, displaying the insight that was another of the reasons Tom kept him around. 

“Lisa also heard Hemsworth had gone berserk.” Jack added. “Literally took the guy apart.”

“So they put him in with us?” Turner scowled, throwing his cards down. “Fucking lovely.”

Tom ignored the outburst.

“Is he going in to solitary?”

“Don’t know, sir, sorry.”

“No matter.” Tom smiled at Jack. “Thank you. Good job.”

“Thank you, sir.” He straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, pleased to be praised. “By the way, didn’t need the chocolate, sir, it’s been returned to stock.”

“Hah! Knew it!” Rowdy crowed. “Jack and his magic dick!”

Tom couldn’t help laugh, but quietly, not wanting to attract the attention of the guards. Jack‘s black eyes narrowed but still there was the tiniest hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

Tom went back to his book, tucking the postcard safely inside the back cover as he resumed reading. Standard protocol was for new prisoners to be segregated for at least twenty-four hours while they were assessed. He’d probably find out tomorrow if the psycher was going to be kept separate or released in to gen pop.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbetad, as we inch forwards.
> 
> 'Getting to know you' is such an annoying earworm.

Most of the latest intake were released in to the prison’s general population after lunch the next day. Two were held back, but not the psycher. 

There was always a lot of interest, a lot of unsubtle gawking when new inmates were shown to their cells, a lot of sizing up. A few of the newbies were old hands, evidenced by the relative ease with which they made their way through the prison environment; a couple of those could even be seen greeting people they knew. The remaining prisoners were divided between nervous virgins, and pretending-not-to-be-nervous virgins. Tom would make a point of checking them out over the next day or so, to see if there was any he could work with, but for the moment his attention was on Hemsworth. 

The psycher could’ve been sleep walking for all the interest he showed in his surroundings. He was directed to a cell where he immediately lay down on the bare mattress and closed his eyes. He hadn’t even let go of his bundle of essentials.

“Hemsworth!” The guard accompanying him barked out. “You need to make your bed!” After a few seconds where it became clear he wasn’t going to get any response, he turned to the cell’s first occupant.

“You need to make sure he makes the bed.”

“ _Me_?” The tall black man almost squeaked in alarm. “No way, officer, I’m not having nothin’ to do with _him_.”

“It’s your cell, you’re responsible – you’re jointly responsible with _him_ – to keep it tidy.” 

Dorsey, Tom recalled his name, looked unhappy but wisely kept his mouth shut. He knew the rules: no talking back, no arguing. The guard gave him a final glare before turning on his heel and marching back to the observation post on the other side of the bars. 

Dorsey, arms crossed tightly, protectively across his chest, spotted Tom watching and hurried over.

“Why’d I get lumbered with 'im, Captain? What if he... what if he _mind rapes_ me or summat while I’m sleeping?”

“Did you see that bit of metal in his head?” Tom tapped his temple and Dorsey shrugged a noncommittal affirmative. “That’s a limiter, it keeps him from using his abilities.”

“Are they tight, these limiters?”

“There’s never been a report of one failing yet.”

“But what – “

“You saw the way he was walking? And now he’s basically asleep?” Tom was losing patience but wasn’t going to let Dorsey see that. “He’s doped up to the eyeballs. You’re perfectly safe.” He slipped him a full packet of cigarettes, palming the box so it wasn’t immediately obvious what he was doing. “Keep an eye on him; let me know how he goes. You might have to help him settle in, understand? The amount of medication he’s probably on, he might not be able to do even simple things like make his bed.” 

“Aw, man.” Dorsey whined. “I got my own stuff to do. Can’t be babysitting some weirdo.”

“I understand.” Tom assured him. “But for the moment you’re it. Be his friend, or at least... don’t antagonise him.”

That last comment got through, as intended. Dorsey sighed.

“Yeah, all right.”

“You’ll be fine.” Tom clapped him on the shoulder. “Just fine...”

~~~oOo~~~

For two days he merely observed Hemsworth; directly when he could, indirectly through reports from others when he couldn’t.

The blond did everything slowly, and when he wasn’t obliged to be doing something he either sat slumped in a chair, staring at nothing, or he slept.

Twice a day he was escorted to the medical wing for, presumably, top-ups of the tranquilizer. These were done by injection, not pills, and the dose remained stable as there seemed to be no levelling off of effects. 

The psycher was given a wide berth by everyone, guards included, but this was perhaps less because Tom wished it and more because the man’s presence was... unsettling. He was tall, and broad, and - going by the bunching of his muscles visible even beneath the obscuring prison greys - strong. Tom didn’t find it hard to believe he’d inflicted the rumoured damage.

Hemsworth was always the last in the queue for food at the mess but there was always a clear spot left for him at the end of the table closest to the serving area. No one ever sat opposite him, or immediately beside him, even if they had to bunch up somewhat at the rest of the table. He ate slowly, with lots of pauses, like everything else he did, sometimes stopping mid-chew and giving the impression he’d forgotten what he’d been doing. He never finished a meal, always being chivvied along by a guard at the end of meal time because there was to be no lingering in the mess hall. 

On the third day, during breakfast, Tom signalled his men with a nod and the three of them picked up their trays and swiftly moved over to Hemsworth's table. Tom sat opposite him while Jack and Rowdy positioned themselves a space or two away on either side of the table, creating a buffer between the Captain and the psycher, and the other inmates. 

“Good morning.” Tom greeted Hemsworth with a polite smile. 

The psycher dragged his focus over to him, then blinked slowly. His eyes were an intense blue but his skin was sallow with lines forming where it looked like he’d lost weight. There was no disguising though, that he was still extremely good looking. 

“You’ll notice that you’ve been left alone.” Tom said conversationally. “You can thank me for that.”

“...Don’t... bother.” The psycher’s voice was deep and rough, like he was hauling each syllable over gravel. And was that an accent?

“Whyever not?”

Another slow blink. 

“... Not naive.”

Tom gave him a grin, the one he knew was full of disarming charm, the one he used when it was too soon to be threatening. 

“Consider it a courtesy.” He took a sip of his tea and let his gaze linger on the metal disk in Hemsworth’s temple. “Does that hurt? I know limiters can be painful.” His older half-sister had been driven slowly insane by hers. “If you need anything to help with that...” He trailed off.

“... No.”

“No, it doesn’t hurt? Or no, you don’t want anything?”

“... No.” 

A frown had formed on Hemsworth’s face, drawing his thick eyebrows together. He was still holding his spoon but it was resting unnoticed in his porridge. 

“Know you... Hiddleston... drugs.”

“Flattered, I’m sure.” Tom drawled, thinking, hoping he was doing a better job of hiding his surprise than he suspected he might be.

“...You avoided... psi questioning.”

Ah, well, Tom should’ve anticipated that a psycher would know about that. 

After he’d been discharged from the army and finished the rehab for his back, Tom had found himself at a bit of a loose end. He’d got chatting with some university mates, Harry and Tim, two chemistry students who’d been on the rugby team with him, and it transpired they had some brilliant ideas for innovative recreational compounds. Tom had no interest in drug-taking himself – he’d experimented of course, but disliked the loss of control – but he _was_ in a position to fund their ‘research’. 

It’d been beautifully lucrative for a time but had come apart when a few deaths were linked to the drugs he’d supplied. It had all been very unpleasant. Tom had taken the fall as the supplier but had professed innocence as to the identity of the cooks. 

The prosecutors, of course, had been frothing to find out who he’d bought from but because of his family’s influence – there were perks to being the grandson of a peer - and because he’d given up some of his distribution network when he was arrested, he’d escaped the psionic questioning that would have unearthed secrets he wasn’t willing to share. Harry and Tim had remained unknown and safe, in return for which they were happy to supply a select range of products that Tom could distribute in prison... 

“Just lucky, I guess.” He smiled at Hemsworth, determinedly relaxed and easy though the psycher continued frowning at him.

The mess hall was emptying. Tom had picked up his tray but the psycher hadn’t moved yet. Jack and Rowdy waited for their boss off to the side as a guard approached the table.

“Finish up, Hemsworth, breakfast’s over.” The guard was on edge already, becoming tetchy at the perceived lack of cooperation. “Get a bloody move on!”

“With the greatest respect, Officer Rudberry.” Tom said. “I think you’ll find he can’t ‘get a bloody move on’. Because of the medication.”

“ _One_. That’s none of your business. _Two_. He’ll just have to go hungry.”

“He already is.” Tom said mildly, nodding towards the half full bowl of greyish mush. “Again, with the greatest respect, sir, I’m sure there’s an article in a charter somewhere about how not allowing a prisoner adequate nutrition is an infringement of their human rights.” 

Tom kept his expression bland as the guard glared at him with obvious loathing. 

“Get out of here, all of you.” He grunted, then stalked off.

“Yes, sir.” Tom called after him, politeness personified.

“...He... doesn’t like you.” Hemsworth was slowly, painfully slowly, pushing back his chair and getting to his feet. “...Is it ‘cause... you’re posh? ... or a dickhead?”

Tom smirked. 

“A little from column A; a little from column B. Here, give me your tray. You look like you’re about to fall over...”

~~~oOo~~~

Tom settled in to bed that night, deep in thought, barely noticing as the lights went out. He’d foisted his company – and by extension Jack and Rowdy’s – on Hemsworth during lunch and dinner. The psycher made no secret about his reluctance to engage with them but hadn’t been able to muster the energy to find somewhere else to sit. 

Tom fancied he’d picked up a bit of knowledge about pharmaceuticals over the years and now that he’d had the chance to observe Hemsworth up close, what he’d noticed was puzzling. 

The psycher’s exhaustion and mental drifting could as well be attributed to low blood sugar from not eating enough as be a direct effect of the meds, which Tom now suspected were only meant to _physically_ restrain him, not knock him out generally. As in, they slowed him down, probably messed with his reflexes and reaction times, but left his mind active. 

Why such specific, targeted sedation? Because he'd brutally murdered someone? There were non-psis here who'd done the same but they weren't subject to the same treatment. It had to be tied to his abilities but if he was such a threat why wasn’t he in isolation? For that matter why wasn't he banged up in the psycher institute, which was undoubtedly better equipped to handle any problems? 

Why was he _here_?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [sigh] If there’s one bit of advice I could give to writers – beginning or otherwise – it’d be ‘assume nothing’. My own fault, I should’ve done at least a smidge of research before I started this but never mind, shouldn’t be that difficult meshing what I’ve already said with what I’ve found out since. [shifty] I’m sure it’ll be seamless. Seamless!

There were a couple of things Tom appreciated about being in a medium security prison, compared to the high security facility where he’d started his sentence: one was the reduced incidences of lockdowns, and the other was the freedom to have a shower more or less anytime he wanted, except after lights-out, naturally. The washrooms here were still communal, still manky, but at least there were individual stalls. They didn’t have doors, however - he glanced at the scene reflected in the mirror above the sink he was using - that wasn’t necessarily a problem. 

Hemsworth wasn’t actively showering so much as just standing under the stream, shoulders slumped, occasionally pushing the button to reactivate the water when it cut out. He had his back to Tom, who was enjoying the view, looking without looking, a skill he developed in boarding school and refined in the army. 

The psycher’s musculature was impressive but like his face, it showed evidence of loss of weight and tone. It was clear he’d put some hours in on his body in the past though: what had he looked like when he was healthy?

Tom turned his attention back to his own reflection and noted it was just about time for a haircut. The short back and sides were growing out but still acceptable; the top though was almost long enough to start falling in to its natural curl again and that was _not_ acceptable. He decided he’d make an appointment with the barber later in the week. 

He scratched lightly at the half a week’s worth of stubble on his chin. To shave or not to shave? A few more days and it would start to look intentional, but no, he’d shave this time; he had a visitor today.

~~~oOo~~~

Elyse was waiting for him in the visits hall, her auburn hair pulled back in to a ponytail, accentuating the smooth length of her neck and the curve of her jaw. Two of the passable espressos and a pair of the excellent cherry Bakewells available from the caff were already on the table in front of her.

She stood up as Tom approached, smiling widely and still looking graceful even dressed down in jeans and a plain, navy blue slim-fit t-shirt. She opened her arms and Tom stepped in to the hug, aware of the guards’ scrutiny but not really caring. Elyse pressed close, her head tucked in under his chin and her arms around his waist. Tom closed his eyes and smiled, relaxing in a way he just couldn’t on the other side. 

A brief tightening of the embrace then he stepped back, smiling down at her. 

“Thank you for coming. It’s so good to see you.”

“They think I’m your girlfriend, you know.” She inclined her head vaguely in the direction of the nearest guard.

“Then they’ll know I have exquisite taste.” Tom grinned and leaned forward, gently grasping Elyse’s chin and tilting her face up. His lips brushed lightly, softly over hers and she sighed, bringing her hands up to rest on his chest. He pulled away again, then gestured for her to sit down, pulling out her chair.

He and Elyse had dated briefly for a little while before he’d been arrested. She wasn’t the last person he’d had sex with but it was close. She’d kept in contact with him, despite being disappointed with the life choices he’d made that had landed him in trouble, and was one of his regular visitors. She frequently brought him ‘care packages’ of new books, CDs and the sort of gourmet treats he wasn’t able to buy through the prison canteen. 

“How are you?” She said, stretching out her hand across the table to his when he sat down opposite. 

Her expression was soft, attentive. Elyse fancied herself in love with him and Tom was careful not to exploit that. Tom didn’t so much have friends as a curated collection of useful people. He was genuinely fond of some of them, and unlike his father didn’t burn bridges and salt the ground behind him when he no longer had need of someone. No, Tom withdrew slowly, subtly, until one day they looked around and realised he wasn’t in their life anymore.

Elyse, however, he _was_ fond of, and she was still useful.

“Oh fine, nothing much happens in here. What’s going on outside? I’m starved for news!”

“Have they started restricting access to print media and the internet already? _Bastards_.” She scowled. “That’s only just been put forward as an amendment.”

For as long as he’d known her, Elyse had been a passionate advocate of various causes - animal rights, children’s rights, environmental issues – and she’d added prisoner welfare to the list since he’d been incarcerated. Tom was sure she knew more about what was going on in the prisons than the prison authorities did.

“I think it’s more cost cutting than anything.” He grinned and tapped her finger. “What’s Binky been up to?”

Elyse immediately broke in to a radiant smile. Binky was her Japanese Spitz, a comically high-spirited idiot who seemed fundamentally incapable of being trained. But they adored each other, and of course Elyse had pictures...

They chatted, sipped their coffees, ate their slices. Elyse caught him up on their mutual acquaintances, including his younger sister and one of his cousins. Tom drank it all in, letting his gaze linger on her eyes, her lips, her throat. Elyse noticed, naturally, and blushed attractively when he stroked her fingers. He glanced over her shoulder to the clock on the wall: they had about ten minutes left of her visit.

“Could I ask a favour?”

“Of course!” She leant forward, smiling.

“Do you know the Wings Foundation?” 

It was extremely likely she would, it was the sort of thing she, and her upper class but socially conscious family would support.

Elyse had near perfect recall. She blinked rapidly, twice, the ‘tell’ that she was accessing her memory. It wasn’t something she was conscious of doing and Tom had never pointed it out to her. 

“I do. One of their directors died recently.” 

_Perfect_.

“Who was that?” He asked.

Elyse blinked again.

“Jonathan Meerkins. Aged sixty-five. The Meerkins family have been long-time supporters of the Foundation. He died suddenly, at home.”

“That’s the official story?”

“Yes. Why?”

Tom considered his words carefully. There was no such thing as an off-hand comment with her and he wanted to make sure he said enough to engage her curiosity without it being recalled later as leading the witness.

“A psycher’s been transferred here recently – “ 

Elyse frowned a little at the derogatory term, and Tom grimaced in something of an apology but carried on. 

“ - Christopher Hemsworth. He was a psi-trainer at the Foundation, apparently. He’s in for murder, and rumour has it that he’s connected with a death there.”

She stared at him.

“But that’s ridiculous. He sounds like a Category A, not Cat D. He shouldn’t be here.”

“That’s what I thought, though he has a limiter, and is on some sort of drug regime that keeps him nearly immobilised physically.”

“Even so... Christopher Hemsworth, you say?” Elyse was marking the details. “Is there anything specific you need to know?”

“Just confirmation of his identity, I think... and an idea about why something as potentially sensational as this hasn’t made the news?” He paused, as if something had only now occurred to him. “Or was it reported and I’ve just missed it?”

“No, there’s been nothing in the news.” Elyse sounded distant as she went back through her mental files. “Nothing over the past six months, anyway. That’s very odd.”

“It is, but... if you look in to it. Be careful, yeah?” Tom let his expression morph in to one of earnestness. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“You think it could be dangerous?” Elyse looked down, suddenly shy. “I might need a reward...”

“A reward, you say?” Tom’s voice dropped even lower and became rough, prompting her to look back up at him. He focused on her mouth again and let her see the desire rising in his eyes. That at least was completely genuine. “What do you have in mind?”

“I...”

She was looking very flustered: Tom had turned her hand over and was gently stroking the inside of her wrist.

“ A conjugal visit?” He grinned, sex and cockiness personified, watching her watch him slyly run his tongue along the edge of his top teeth. Elyse had never mentioned any other partners, lovers, since she’d been with him so he was fairly confident she’d be amenable to the idea. It also meant it was unlikely he’d be stepping on anyone else’s toes, which generally resulted in needless drama. 

“Aren’t... aren’t they only for married couples?”

“Not just them.” He whispered.

Which was true, established couples could apply as well, he’d checked. And as Elyse had been visiting him regularly from the start it wouldn’t be hard to convince the powers that be that they were long-term. 

“Well, I suppose I would deserve a little present.” Elyse sounded breathless. “If... if this truly is a dangerous task you’ve set me.”

“Yes, you would.” Tom’s own breathlessness wasn’t entirely unfeigned, either. He looked at the clock again and groaned. “Damn, hour’s up, sorry.”

“Oh. Okay.” Elyse pulled her hand away from his and stood up, self-consciously smoothing down her t-shirt. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

“And I’ll see what I can do for _you_.” Tom’s grin was knowingly cheeky and Elyse laughed.

“Oh my god, mum warned me about men like you!”

“And she was absolutely right.” Tom stood then pulled her in for a close hug, letting her feel – just briefly – his semi. 

“Okay. Right.” She was blushing as she pushed herself away. “I’m going now. Take care, Tom, I’ll see you soon.”

“Thanks for coming!” He said as she headed towards the exit, and couldn’t help the grin when she snorted a giggle and waved to him over her shoulder.

“Bye, you... _masher_!”

One of the guards came over as soon as his visitor was through the exit.

“All right, Romeo, back you go...”

~~~oOo~~~

Tom’s buzz lasted until dinner, where it was overtaken by concern... no, not concern, annoyance.

Hemsworth had taken even longer than usual to get seated, hadn’t looked up once, and was now staring unblinkingly at the table top. He hadn’t bothered with his food, was breathing shallowly through slack, pale lips and there was an uneven red flush staining his cheeks.

For christ’s sake, he was escorted twice a day to the medical wing, had none of the ‘medical professionals’ there noticed the deterioration? Had none of the guards? _Jesus_. 

A niggling thought occurred that maybe they’d been instructed not to notice. 

“Hemsworth. _Hemsworth_.” Tom frowned at the lack of response. He tapped the back of the psycher’s hand; his skin was very warm. “ _Christopher_.”

Hemsworth twitched, a jerky, startled motion that seemed – Tom thought – a disproportionate response, uncomfortably close to the fits that’d afflicted his older sister. _Oh shit_. He turned to Jack.

“Get a guard...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on conjugal visits: they’re not a thing in English prisons, where this fic is ostensibly set, but I’m deploying the AU-TARPAULIN. That should cover it (ahahaha, I am so funny...)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, so no one died.

It was ten days before Hemsworth was back, hale if not particularly hearty. 

Having had zero excuses to visit the hospital wing, Tom’d had to rely on second hand reports. No doubt some of what he heard was fanciful speculation – the lights in the psycher’s room flickering ‘spookily’ for instance – but he thought he could sift out some facts:

\- Hemsworth had been unconscious, or in a coma for five days.  
\- He’d been kept in an isolation room, apparently at the request of, or command from the three psychers who’d arrived shortly after he’d been carted off.  
\- The psychers had taken it in turns to sit with him the whole time, right up until he was discharged and escorted back to gen pop. They never left him alone.  
\- When they were together the psychers seemed to argue amongst themselves even though they never made a sound.  
\- One of them was a tall man with a beard; another was a ‘fat-as-fuck’ middle-aged woman, and the third was a tiny, young, Indian woman with ‘huge knockers’. Unsurprisingly, Tom heard more about her than the others.  
\- They were all scary motherfuckers.  
\- When Hemsworth was finally awake he and the psychers talked to each other like regular people.


As to the particulars of his medical treatment? Tom could only make an educated guess, but as he was now alert and moving almost normally – normally enough to start using the gym equipment – and was eating and bathing regularly, the tranqs had probably been scaled back or reconfigured. It still wasn’t clear why he was on them in the first place.

~~~oOo~~~

Hemsworth had joined them for lunch the day he’d been discharged. Tom - and his cronies - had made a point of occupying the same spot as previously while he’d been in hospital. Tom was curious to see if the psycher would try to find somewhere else to sit, but no he came straight over after picking up his food.

“So I have you to thank for not letting me die?” He looked straight at Tom. “What’s that going to cost me?”

“Well, I was planning on prostituting you out.” Tom’s smile was somewhere between playful and condescending. “But I think there’d be less hesitation if I offered old Rowdy, here.”

“Oi!” Rowdy spluttered while Jack sniggered at him from across the table.

“No offense.” Tom flicked a smile at his affronted subordinate. 

“ _None taken_.” Rowdy growled in to his sandwich, before directing a vicious kick to Jack’s shins, an ultimately futile attempt to stop him laughing.

“I’d be happy to fuck you.” Hemsworth said to Tom: Jack and Rowdy’s sudden, attentive silence was almost tangible.

The skin around the psycher’s eyes was crinkling in perceptible amusement but the look _in_ his eyes was more... calculating. Tom arched an eyebrow.

“Oh no, sweetheart, that’s not how it would go.” 

The psycher shrugged, implying it was his loss, but whatever, and turned his attention back to his lunch.

Tom’s smile broadened.

“Jonathan Meerkins.” He said, conversationally. 

Tom was very good at reading people, at catching the micro-expressions that were suggestive of their true thoughts or feelings, before they consciously settled an expression on their face. What he saw now, before Hemsworth affected bland disinterest, was shock.

“Who?” 

“Jonathan Meerkins. One of the board of directors for the Wings Foundation, who you worked for.”

Hemsworth frowned and let his gaze drift a little like he was searching his memory.

“Ringing vague bells. I might’ve met him.”

“He died recently.”

The psycher’s eyebrows rose in an almost convincing display of surprise.

“Really? If it’s who I’m thinking of he was pretty old.”

“Mm.” Tom sipped his tea, keeping his gaze steady on the psycher. 

It was interesting that Hemsworth hadn’t bothered to try and refute that he’d worked for the foundation but more interesting was that he was lying about knowing Meerkins. Tom knew he was lying because he had third-party confirmation of their association: he’d had another visit from Elyse while Hemsworth had been in hospital.

She’d been neat and practical in a suit this time, her hair twisted in to a chignon at the base of her neck. After greeting him with her customary hug, Elyse got straight down to business.

“I checked the Foundation’s website. No mention of Christopher Hemsworth anywhere. So I went back a step and did a general web search. Again, no results.”

Tom frowned.

“What does that mean? Is he using an alias - ?”

Elyse held up a finger, indicating she hadn’t finished, and Tom shut up.

“Because I’m thorough, and good at my job, I then had a look at the Internet Archive Project.”

“The what...?”

Elyse grinned.

“Yes, I’d imagine that would be the same expression on the face of the person who’d initially tried to wipe out any mention of him.” 

She laughed outright at Tom’s bafflement before taking pity on him. 

“First things first, very quickly. In the mid 90’s it was accepted wisdom by researchers – “ she tilted her head, acknowledging her own profession, “ - academics, historians etc. that while the internet was a very useful, if erratic resource, it was essentially ephemeral.”

Tom nodded.

“Information changes.”

“Exactly. It’s altered, substituted, deleted. You visit a site one day and something’s there, you visit it another day and it’s gone.”

“Which leads us to the Internet Archive Project?”

“Exactly! So much more than a pretty face!” She smirked and leaned forward, cupping his cheek, lingering there for a moment before pulling her hand back. “The British Library, in conjunction with a few other interested parties, got government funding to start the project about ten years ago. Selected websites, those that are considered to be important to social history or cultural heritage are ‘snap shotted’ and archived a few times a year, more often if their content changes regularly. It’s opt in, you can chose to participate if you’re asked, or volunteer your site for consideration if you’re not. A lot of government sites holding public information are included, some commercial sites as well, some public interest sites... and some charities.” 

“The Wings Foundation.”

“ _The Wings Foundation_.” Elyse confirmed, radiating satisfaction. “Christopher Hemsworth is all over the old site. He’s their poster boy for helpful, non-threatening psionics. He’s been with them since he was taken in to care at _eight_. He completed his trainer qualification ten years ago and is beloved by students and colleagues alike.” She coloured a little. “Also bloody gorgeous, if the pictures were anything to go by.” 

“Anything about Meerkins?”

“ _Loads_. Articles about the board members, pictures of meet and greets, formal functions, fund raisers. But, comparing the old site with the current one, there’s also load of discrepancies. Hemsworth was erased wholesale, up to a point, but documents that linked him and Meerkins - and there were a lot - weren’t simply removed, they were altered so that he was gone but Meerkins remained. I have to give credit to whoever did this, it’s a beautiful job.” She took a breath. “But something else I noticed in particular was that the eulogy the Foundation had written up for Jonathan Meerkins - this great and good man - was very subdued, very generic compared to his level of activity within the Foundation.”

“That sounds like a distancing manoeuvre.” Tom had firsthand experience of the machinations of PR. 

“It does.” Elyse agreed. “Someone with that sort of profile being downplayed? Definitely suspicious. But anyway, so now I knew Hemsworth existed I looked for his court records.” Her lips twisted. “They’re there, but locked. And Meerkin’s death certificate is attached so that’s also unavailable to view.” 

“Shit.” Tom was thinking fast.

“I dug a bit deeper, kind of went sideways a bit, and found there’s a media suppression order on the whole thing.” She frowned. “That only happens with really top level stuff, Tom. National security. Things that can compromise the functioning of the government. Things that could Spook The Public.”

Tom reached across the table and took Elyse’s hands in his, gripping her fingers tightly while smiling and keeping his posture relaxed, just in case anyone was paying especial attention.

“Thank you so much, Elyse, you’ve done a sterling job.” He said softly. “Don’t go poking around anymore, please.”

“But if there’s something really dodgy going on? If this is more evidence of cover-ups of abuse of power?“

“You’re a lone voice, easily silenced.”

She blanched, but rallied.

“I won’t be alone. There’s a number of journalists I can pass the information on to.”

“Please don’t. Not yet.”

“You‘re really worried about me?”

“Of course I am. You’re a dear, dear friend.”

“A friend. Right.” 

There was an edge to her voice that warned Tom he’d blundered in the wrong direction. _Clumsy_! 

He knew how she felt about him - and played on that a little to keep her close - just as he also knew that _she knew_ her feelings weren’t reciprocated but was still hopeful. Oh well, he could only go forwards; back pedalling would only make things worse.

“One of my _closest_ friends.” He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the backs of her fingers. “You’re important to me.” 

 

The smile she gave him was soft but a little sad. 

“I know.” Still, she didn’t try to take her hand away. “Okay, I’ll steer clear but I’m going to securely archive the screen dumps I took.” She shrugged at his quizzical expression. “I figured if someone had gone to all that trouble to clear him off the current site, they might get ‘round to trying to wipe the old stuff.”

“You’re also one of the cleverest people I know.” Tom didn’t try to mask his admiration. “But... Can your involvement be traced? If someone goes looking to see if there’s been any nosing about?”

“It was under my login, naturally, but I ... have a colleague who may be able to do something about that.” 

“I think you should talk to them. Just to be on the safe side.”

“Yeah, all right.” She frowned. “This doesn’t sit well with me.”

“Injustice never does.” Tom smiled and kissed her fingers again before releasing her hand. “Our friend is... incommunicado at the moment; I’ll see if I can find out anything else when I can talk to him.”

“Is that safe? The archived stuff gives the impression he’s a teddy bear, but if he did what you say he did...?”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You’d better.” She was getting very pink around the cheeks and not meeting his gaze. “I’m still owed my reward.” 

“I haven’t forgotten.” Tom’s smile was broad and gentle; no pressure, no threat. “The paperwork is in.”

“Well, good.” Elyse glanced at her watch then finally looked at him. “I’m going to go. Tom...”

“Yes?” He looked directly in to her eyes, his expression open and sincere, wanting to make sure she understood she had all of his attention.

Elyse’s lips quirked and she shook her head.

“Doesn’t matter. Take care, I’ll see you soon.”

Tom watched her leave, keeping the smile on his face in case she turned around. She didn’t and he silently cursed himself for his stupidity. He hadn’t lost her, but neither could he count on being forgiven just yet. People didn’t like to be reminded that their fantasies were just smoke in the wind...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Web archiving is a thing - http://www.bl.uk/aboutus/stratpolprog/digi/webarch/ - I've just tweaked the details a little.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Progress!  
> And please note the added tags.

Hemsworth avoided Tom for several days after he’d thrown Meerkin’s name at him. 

It was childishly amusing on one level: wherever Tom was, the psycher generally wasn’t even if it meant he had to leave the area when Tom walked in. Other than his cell, the main exception to this was the mess hall, but even then the psycher would sit somewhere out of Tom’s line of sight. This caused some ripples of consternation but nobody was going to tell him couldn’t sit wherever he damn well wanted. Tom was mildly concerned this unease could translate in to violence, but Hemsworth was still given a wide berth. He was even more intimidating now that he wasn’t a zombie.

Tom doubted many of his fellow inmates had actual experience with psychers, let alone one with a limiter but he heard the mutterings. They weren’t sure that Hemsworth wasn’t still a threat to their brains, somehow. Tom thought they should’ve been more concerned with his fists, to be honest. 

Hemsworth may have been keeping his distance but there were a few... odd instances where Tom would look up to find the psycher looking at him, though he’d quickly break eye contact. 

Then there was the incident in the wash room. 

Tom had finished in the shower and was shaving at the sinks, a regulation dingy white towel wrapped around his waist. Hemsworth ambled in, sweat patches on his clothes showing he’d been in the gym. He didn’t acknowledge Tom, simply stripped off and stepped in to a shower cubicle... that was clearly reflected in the mirror Tom was using. 

The psycher showered with his eyes half-closed, seemingly ignoring him but there was something... artful in his posture, the way his muscles flexed as he soaped himself. In the face of such an unabashed display Tom felt perfectly justified in looking his fill. 

He watched the water soak through Hemsworth’s hair – he’d kept the area around the limiter and tattoo shaved – then flow down a physique that was beginning to show the effects of dedicated weight training. Down the water ran, down to his crotch, turning his pubes dark blond. They in turn framed a nicely-shaped, sizeable cock. Uncircumcised, Tom noted in passing, his attention already lingering on powerful thighs.

Hemsworth turned around and Tom continued his perusal, appreciating the way the water was funnelled down the psycher’s back to slip between the cheeks of his lovely arse.

And then he looked back over his shoulder at Tom, their gazes meeting in the mirror, causing a tingling jolt of straight-up lust to shoot directly to Tom’s dick. 

He pressed his hips, his cock, into the cool porcelain in front of him, mindlessly seeking friction for a split second before he caught himself. He thought he’d been subtle about it but there was a small, knowing smile curving the psycher’s lips. 

Tom finished up and... he didn’t flee, _per se_ , but he didn’t linger, and he didn’t look at Hemsworth again. 

Later though, after lights out, he let himself leisurely explore the image of the psycher he’d committed to memory. Hemsworth was a clean skin, no tattoos, no markings except for the numbers on his temple, but the rest of him...

Tom had tattoos, inked reminders of important stages in his life. His regiment’s crest and motto was on his left shoulder: his blood type was above his heart in clear, bold characters. On his right shoulder he had his university’s rugby team logo and the year they’d won the cup when Tom had captained. Down the right side of his ribs – and holy fuck hadn’t that hurt – was inscribed the near-perfect scores he’d achieved in his first year at Uni. 

It was the first tattoo he’d got and it was a definite ‘ _fuck-you_ ’ to his father who a: didn’t approve of tattoos or body modifications at all, and who’d b: spent a lot of that year hectoring his son, verbally and physically, about letting his grades slip. Tom had gone from years in a strict and restrictive boarding school to the relative freedom of university, with rooms he didn’t have to share, of course he’d gone a little wild! 

He detested the course he’d been required to take – Business and Management Studies for fucks sake – and had fantasized plenty of times about giving it all up, or swapping over to something that would really annoy his father, something pointless like an Arts degree, film or drama. He’d stuck with it though because as much as he wanted to piss off his father he wasn’t an idiot, and his trust fund wouldn’t kick in until he was twenty-one. 

So Tom had knuckled down, worked hard and ended up with better marks than he’d realistically expected. He’d gone out and got the tattoo in a white hot blaze of indignation and rebellion because, even though he’d done better than expected, his not coming top of his year was all dear old dad had to say about it. 

Tom had another tattoo, on the inside of his right hip. He didn’t like it very much and had considered getting it removed more than once, but it served as a useful reminder of the dangers of getting wasted and losing control of a situation. 

Elyse had found it particularly amusing.

“ _Ravenclaw?_ ” She’d giggled when she first saw it. “ _Slytherin, surely?_ ”

But Hemsworth though? Miles and miles of blank canvas. Of course prison tattoos were against regulations, and of course Tom could very easily get his hands on a jury-rigged tat gun. He visualized his initials inscribed in cursive at the base of Hemsworth’s spine or on his shoulder blade. He’d trace those with his fingertips as he fucked the big blond open...

Tom came silently in to his hand, releasing a deep breath as a sigh. Across the short distance of the cell Jack didn’t even stir: Tom’d had years to perfect the soundless orgasm.

~~~oOo~~~

The day after the whatever-that-had-been in the wash room Tom was in his cell reading a book; Rowdy was lounging on Jack’s bed, flicking through a magazine. To the casual glance there was nothing notable going on, but with Jack standing outside acting as door-bitch, it was a signal that The Captain was in and ready to give audience to supplicants.

“Captain.” Jack’s voice pulled Tom out of his book. “Someone to see you.”

 _Hemsworth_. Bloody hell, he filled the doorway. Tom used his politely professional smile and kept his eyes firmly fixed on the psycher’s face.

“Come in. What can I do for you?” 

The psycher gazed pensively at him for a few moments.

“If I tell you about Meerkins... we’re square, right?”

“You don’t want to fuck me anymore?” Tom raised his eyebrows. “I’m wounded.”

“Oh, I do, but it can be outside this obligation.” The psycher grinned, but it was fleeting. “Well?”

Tom considered: normally he’d want to know what the info was first, before he deemed it worth a trade.

“Sure.” He looked over at Rowdy. “Perry’s late with his payment. Go chase that up, will you?”

Rowdy’s gaze flicked between the two men, dubious, but he set the magazine aside and stood up. 

“Sure thing, Captain.” 

Tom indicated Jack’s now empty bed, inviting Hemsworth to sit. He did, resting his forearms on his thighs, hands clasped lightly between his knees.

“What do you know about the Meerkins clan?” He began.

“I thought you were supposed to be giving _me_ information?”

“Humour me.” The psycher’s smile was singularly humourless.

“Well...” Tom gathered his thoughts. 

He was aware of them, naturally, his family moved in the same circles though he’d never had that much to do with any of them. 

“Manufacturing. Industry. Mining, I think? Something to do with rare earths?” He waited for Hemsworth’s nod before continuing. “Generous supporters of the government.”

Meaning they made significant donations via lobbyists, which ensured they had sympathetic ears amongst the policy makers. 

“They support Conservative governments, in particular.” Hemsworth nodded. “That’s when they make the most money.”

“Right, and they have a reputation for philanthropy, which is spun as ‘giving back’ to the community, but the cynical amongst us aren’t as easily sidetracked.”

The psycher’s smile was grim this time. 

“The Wings Foundation has been around for one hundred and fifty years. There’s always been a Meerkins on the board; they’re one of our major sponsors, but this one... Ah, _fuck_.”

Hemsworth suddenly pressed the heels of his hands in to his eyes.

“Are you all right?” Tom refused to be alarmed just yet.

The psycher was scowling at his hands, which were shaking faintly.

“It _really_ pisses me off that I’m not allowed to learn to control this myself.” He muttered. 

“Do you need anything?” Tom prodded cautiously.

“No, no, I’m good.” Hemsworth fixed him with a piercing look. “But. If you feel threatened – at all – leave, shut the door, get the guards.”

Tom had been going to go whip out an off-hand, smartarse comment but... Hemsworth’s expression didn’t brook any argument.

“I will.” 

“Right. Good.” The psycher took a deep breath. “I never liked Meerkins, he always made my skin crawl, but I was supposed to make nice with him, and the other board members, and financial supporters, the politicians. That sort of shit. One day...” His hands were trembling more noticeably. “One day... I walked in on Meerkins and one of our younger girls. He was... he was... _fuck_.”

His distress was obvious, though he was keeping himself together: Tom reached out and tentatively touched the back of Hemsworth’s hand. It startled him and Tom almost flinched away.

“Are you okay?”

Hemsworth pulled in a ragged breath and nodded: outside the cell Jack could be heard telling someone the Captain was busy and to come back later. 

“Katie was crying... and scared, so scared, but not able to move.” He twisted his fingers together. “I don’t... remember exactly what happened. Katie’s screaming brought me out of it, she was screaming in my head.” His voice hitched as he touched his forehead but he took another deep breath and continued. “I had a chance to look around, realised what I’d apparently done to Meerkins... and then someone blasted me in to unconsciousness.”

“You killed him?”

“Very dead.” The psycher sighed, pressing his fingertips to his closed eyes. “There was no coming back from that.”

“You were protecting the girl, Katie, right? Would you have hurt her?”

“Shit, no!” Hemsworth snarled, fists clenched. “I snapped out of it because she was terrified of me. To hurt her would’ve been...! No, just no.”

Tom watched as the psycher consciously steadied himself. 

“ What happened next?” He prompted.

“They woke me up a week later.” Hemsworth gusted another sigh. “I was strapped down in med bay, with the shittiest headache, and tubes everywhere. My friend, colleague, Indira was there when I came ‘round. She told me there was a court order that I be fitted with a limiter, but they’d managed to delay the implant because they hadn’t wanted me to wake up to that.” He raised his fingers to the metal disc in his temple but didn’t touch it. “The Meerkins were baying for blood.” 

“Not surprising.” Tom said, then hazarding a guess, he asked: “There’s more?” 

He held up his hands, palms out, at Hemsworth’s sharp look. 

“... You don’t have to tell me.”

Which was a generous thing for him to say seeing as he really, really wanted to know.

The psycher subjected him to another long moment of scrutiny, then twitched his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug.

“I haven’t been sworn to secrecy, and it could be handy for someone not involved to know the details, if I end up dead at the bottom of a stairwell.”

Tom wasn’t sure if that was humour or not so elected to keep quiet. 

“All right then.” The blond sat up straight. “But understand this is all hearsay. I only found out about it much later, it was only relayed to me verbally, I didn’t see anything written down and none of it was admitted as evidence in my trial.”

Tom narrowed his eyes: that sounded suspiciously like a carefully-worded, legally admissible disclaimer. 

“Did you plead guilty?”

“No choice. There was a witness, and although I don’t consciously remember what I did, the forensic psi scan retrieved... evidence.”

Tom nodded, indicating Hemsworth should continue, though something was nagging at him. He mentally flagged it for consideration later, then gave his full attention to the psycher.

“When I... disturbed him – Meerkins - he’d been halfway through erasing Katie’s memory.”

“The _fuck_?” Tom was taken aback. 

“He was a concealed psionic,” Hemsworth grimaced. “Though we have no way to prove that now he’s dead. His family denied all knowledge and threatened to sue us for slander except, first, we hadn’t made a public statement, and second, Katie’s testament was compelling.”

“But...?” Tom was having trouble understanding this. “How could he be ‘concealed’ when he was surrounded by you lot? Hasn’t the Foundation got some of the strongest Diviners in the country working there?”

“Diviners aren’t infallible.” Hemsworth said, frustrated. “And we don’t know how he did it: he only ever presented as a null.”

That was a term Tom hadn’t heard before.

“A what? A ‘ _null_ ’?” 

“Oh, ah, a null is a non-psionic we can’t read.” Hemsworth clarified. “We can spot them because their minds are a blank area amongst all the colour and noise of everyone else.”

And didn’t that statement give rise to half a dozen more questions? Tom forced himself to stay focused on the story.

“So, if you’d come in a little later, you might’ve still killed him but Katie would’ve had no memory why?” 

“Yep. She remembered enough to be pretty specific about some of... what he’d done.”

“Enough to justify killing him?” Tom asked. 

“Killing, _murder_ , is rarely justified.” Hemsworth replied with a primness that would’ve been funny in a man his size, in other circumstances.

“Do you regret killing him?”

“Yes, if only because we lost the chance to take him apart and see how he got away with it for so long.”

Tom raised his eyebrows, and the psycher nodded.

“After hearing what Katie had to say, further investigations were carried out.” He leaned forward, earnest. “The thing was, Meerkins had had unrestricted and frequently unsupervised access to kids for forty-odd years. Fortunately we keep meticulous records, so through cross-referencing dates and times of his visits we were able to get a list of names together.”

“How many?” Tom wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know.

“Sixty-three potential victims that we could pinpoint; eighty-four potential incidences.”

“Shit... ” Tom made some rough calculations. “Though given the time frame? Two a year on average? Which is still appalling.” He added hastily after the psycher scowled.

“Two a year within the _Foundation_.” Hemsworth let the implication hang, then looked down at the floor. “I was on the list.”

A few things clicked jarringly in to place for Tom. 

“Do you think, you saw what he was doing and it triggered something?”

Hemsworth shook his head.

“I don’t have any memory of meeting him when I was younger, but that could’ve been because I was bored or distracted. The deep scan I had showed no evidence of psionic tampering – and there is _always_ evidence if you know what you’re looking for. Plus, the pattern that emerged from the other scans we were able to do showed he had a preference for girls between eight and twelve.”

“Son of a bitch.” Tom paused, frowned. “Then why did you go berserk?”

The psycher half-smiled, rueful. 

“My personality profile indicates a deeply-rooted protective instinct. Meerkins was hurting someone under my care, one of my kids. Of course I attacked him. It was a primal response.”

“Well, can’t argue with that, I suppose.” Tom mirrored Hemsworth’s smile. “I have a couple of questions, if I may?”

“Go ahead.”

“Why the tranquilizers?”

Hemsworth seemed surprised by the question.

“It’s to...” He frowned as he searched for the right words. “The rage I felt fueled a massive burst of adrenaline, which gave me the brute strength to... do what I did when I flipped out. The meds block that somehow. It was explained to me but it got very technical.”

“Okay...” That sounded plausible enough. “So that bit of drama when you first came here was just mismanagement of the dose?”

“Pretty much. It’s under control now.”

“Right, so, second question: why are you _here_? In the _regular_ prison system? For that matter, why aren’t you in max?”

“Why aren’t _you_ in max?” Hemsworth countered with a slight smile. “That’s where suppliers of Class A controlled substances are supposed to go.”

“That’s where I started,” Tom leaned back and grinned. “But it was very crowded, and as I’d been an exemplary prisoner and wasn’t deemed a flight risk, I was transferred.” 

There was more to it than that, naturally, but the first rule of pretty much anything was _don’t over share_. 

“Come on, you didn’t answer my question." Tom was still grinning. "What about you?”

Hemsworth shrugged and looked disingenuous. 

“I don’t know.”

He was lying but Tom didn’t challenge him on it, partly because he didn’t want him to know how easily he could be read. 

Hemsworth stood up.

“So? We’re good?” 

“We are.”

Tom remained seated but held up his hand for the psycher to shake. Hemsworth hesitated before taking it; his grip was firm and his skin beautifully warm. He glanced at Tom’s stack of books.

“Can I borrow something?”

“Help yourself.”

“Thanks. What’s this going to cost me?” 

Tom chuckled.

“Consider it a freebie. Just bring it back in one piece.”

He studied Hemsworth as he worked a paperback loose. 

“What’s it like, having a limiter?”

The psycher remained intent on the book in his hand, not answering immediately. 

“Image you wake up one day and all your senses have been dulled to the point where you feel like you’ve been wrapped in cotton wool and stuffed in a box.”

“Sorry, that’s... wow.”

Hemsworth shrugged. 

“You get used to it.“ 

And that was another lie...

 

After Hemsworth had left the cell, Tom realised what it was that’d been nagging at him earlier.

 _No choice_ , the psycher had said about pleading guilty, but there was always a choice, unless a deal had been brokered beforehand. Was this relatively cushy placement a reward for pleading guilty and not forcing the Meerkins clan through a potentially public trial? In which case: had Hemsworth fallen on his sword, so to speak, or had he been pushed?


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Discussions of surgical procedures ahead!
> 
> (Take said discussions, and all further discussions of medical matters with a grain of salt, plzkthnx)

In theory, prisoners had access to the same level of health care available to the general population. In reality it could be a good deal more patchy, but as with nearly everything in life, if you had the money you could get a better service. 

When Tom had been sentenced it’d been noted on his record that due to a previous medical condition – his spinal damage - he needed regular access to a physiotherapist. Noah Wishbourne had been his physio during his post-army rehab, and had consented to continue in that role ever since, including making the regular fortnightly trip to treat Tom in prison. 

Tom liked Noah. The physio was a blunt, no nonsense individual with excellent communication skills and fingers of steel. Right now he was digging those fingers into the muscles either side of Tom’s spine.

“I don’t like this muscle wastage, Tom. You’ve been doing the exercises?”

“Yes.” Tom grimaced as Noah unerringly found another tender spot. “And yoga twice a day. There’s some talk about starting up tai chi classes. What do you think?”

“Hm. Couldn’t hurt, if you’re careful and the instructor knows what they’re doing. You have access to a gym, with weights?”

“Most days.”

“We’re going to add some targeted weight training to the regime.”

“Oh, goody.”

Noah huffed, not quite a laugh.

“It’s past time it was included but I wasn’t convinced you were ready.” He stroked his thumb firmly over a ridge of muscle and Tom suppressed the urge to skitter away. “You’re going to go backwards without it though. Your treatment would be a lot smoother if you hadn’t gone to jail.”

“ _So_ sorry for the inconvenience.” 

The physio deigned to ignore that.

“Hm. I don’t suppose you’d be allowed to keep free weights in your cell?”

Tom snorted.

“ _No_ , but gosh, I have some heavy books, maybe I could improvise?”

“Don’t be sarcastic.” There was another prolonged prod that had Tom wincing. “I’m also going to prescribe you some extra painkillers. Don’t be stupid about taking them.”

Tom only smiled: the physio had no idea how things worked in here. There was no way he was going to leave himself vulnerable, paracetamol would continue to suffice.

Waking up in the field hospital, unable to feel anything from his ribcage down had been the closest he’d ever been to panicking. A nurse had noticed his agitation and he’d been put back under straight away, before he could ask what was going on. 

The next time he woke he was about to be medevaced to Europe for specialist treatment. The surgeon who spoke to him was brisk but compassionate: they’d stabilised his shattered vertebrae, and his spinal cord seemed to be intact, but... 

Tom understood. They couldn’t tell him yet whether he’d walk again or not. 

He had only fragmented memories of what had happened. They’d been travelling in convoy, there’d been an explosion... He’d been lucky, apparently. The roadside IED had only flipped the armoured vehicle he’d been in, not shredded it like the one ahead of them that’d set the fucking thing off. Yeah, well – Tom had found it hard to be philosophical when he was immobilised from the shoulders down and reliant on someone else for everything – _luck_ was relative.

The operation to glue his spine back together had been successful, no complications, but being bound up in a brace while it healed was frustrating. The physiotherapy had started before the brace had come off, and only intensified afterwards, but it was months before he regained full mobility. The concern was the possibility of re-fracturing his back while it was so weak, so everything was done very cautiously while he rebuilt the strength in his muscles. 

As he was recovering from the surgery in hospital, Tom’d decided that he wanted out of the army _right fucking now_ but even so, when he was given the choice of continuing on in an administrative role or being medically discharged, Tom asked for time to think.

He didn’t want to stay – the military wasn’t his calling, he’d been lucky to get out alive and army life without active service would be excruciating – but being discharged would put him within range of his father’s ambitions again.

He toyed with the idea of doing more study – there were incentives for ex-military there, too – but, bloody hell, the thought of being bogged down in text books and essays without the release of physical activity? No. 

He’d used the excuse of his physical therapy to dance just out of reach of his father for a while longer. His mother had been complicit in this, even with her failing health, but she wouldn’t go directly against her husband. She hadn’t put up any firm resistance when Tom’s debt for his excellent education was called in and he’d had to accept the offer of employment with his father’s firm. 

The work was as boring as he’d expected it to be, better than an entry-level position but even so he was still so far down the pecking order he could smell the mail room. He wasn’t given any real responsibility and my god, how many ‘productivity and innovation’ meetings did he need to attend? On the plus side, however, being so junior meant there was some distance for the moment from his father’s direct oversight but Tom knew that his immediate manager was reporting straight to the prick anyway. 

Fortunately that chance meeting with Harry and Tim helped liven things up for him. He made a killing at the firm: it was surprising how many young brokers felt they needed help maintaining their edge...

“Wait here.” Noah said. “I’ll update the medical officer.”

He returned after about ten minutes – time in which Tom allowed himself to enjoy the solitude – with a pair of light dumbbells.

“I borrowed these from the medics.” Noah explained. “So I can show you the exercises.”

He took him step by step through the various lifts, watching and correcting to make sure Tom understood what he was supposed to be doing, then wrote out the procedure and a list of progressions and a recommended timeframe.

“Follow the recipe. Don’t overdo it.” Noah admonished. “I’ll be back in a week to check on you. Powers that be permitting. Failing that it’ll be a fortnight. Okay, lie down.”

Tom refrained from sighing happily as he stretched out on his stomach on the examination table: this was the bit he really enjoyed. Noah tutted as he massaged Tom’s back, digging his thumbs in – a little gentler now – to release the knots of tension.

“Ideally you should be getting regular massages as well but I don’t suppose that’s realistic here either?”

Oh, Tom would love to have regular massages again! It was one of the things he’d taken for granted in his previous life, not realising how much of a luxury they were until he couldn’t have one whenever he wanted. 

He did all right on his own: he could reach the problem areas on his back but it was a weird angle and not terribly satisfying, the old tennis ball against the wall therapy was more effective but lacked dignity. He could, he supposed, make a request through Noah for massage therapy but couldn’t see that being granted, and he was absolutely not going to ask any of the inmates for help, even though he could think of five off the top of his head who’d be happy to oblige. 

A sense memory of the heat of Hemsworth’s skin when they’d shook hands flitted in to his mind. Tom lingered on that delicious thought for a moment then pushed it aside. Nope, not going there.

He left the hospital wing more relaxed than he’d been since, well, Noah’s last visit, and bonus, he wasn’t going to have to wait a fortnight for the next one. He refused to let the physio’s concern bother him, however. 

~~~oOo~~~

Elyse’s regular visit happened the next day and straight away Tom could see something was wrong. She’d had time to think about his slip up last week. ‘ _Just friends_ ’? Really, he was such an idiot...

She hugged him, as usual, but it wasn’t the same sort of hug he'd previously enjoyed. They sat, and Tom reached forward to take her hands in his.

“What’s up?” He asked, gently.

Elyse looked startled for a moment then relaxed in to ruefulness. 

“Tom, I know we’re never going to be...” She sighed. “I’m going to stay away for a while.” 

She was searching his face for a reaction; he kept his expression soft, enquiring.

“If you think that’s best.”

“I do. Also, if the uh, _visit_ is approved, I’m going to say no. Sorry.”

“Oh. Of course.” Tom allowed his expression to drop. “That’s a shame, but again if you think it’s best...” 

He’d had word back that the ‘family’- read: conjugal - visit hadn’t been approved anyway. He’d been going to tell her today but changed his mind there and then. He was happy to let Elyse believe it was her decision entirely, as a sop to her self-respect. 

“I’m sorry if I led you on.”

“You did a bit.” She gave a breathy little laugh. “But I let you.”

“I don’t want you to feel guilty about taking a break.” Tom squeezed her fingers. “You have done so much for me, I can’t express how thankful, how grateful I am.” He smiled. “And the care packages too, they’ve made such a difference.”

“I could still send those. If you’d like?” She asked, with a shyness that was reminiscent of the early days of their – call it what it was – friendship, not relationship.

“If it’s not too much trouble? It’s the little luxuries that make it bearable in here.” Tom was being careful not to lay it on too thick. 

“All right then.” Elyse pulled back her hands and sat up straight; she was smiling but there was a suggestion of a wobble around her mouth. “I’m... I’m going to go now. I’ll be in touch.” 

“Wait. Before you leave...”

Something else had occurred to Tom after his chat with Hemsworth. The psycher had said he hadn’t been sworn to secrecy about Meerkins and the Foundation, but he hadn’t sworn Tom to secrecy either. So...

Elyse’s lip-wobble hardened in to firm lines of shock and disapproval as Tom retold Hemsworth’s story. 

“That’s outrageous!” She said in a furious whisper. “I don’t... How could they... Do you think it’s true?”

Tom remembered the psycher’s reactions and expressions, and nodded, solemn.

“And he let himself be sentenced without trial?” 

Elyse’s dander was well and truly up, Tom was pleased to see. Anger at perceived injustice was, comparatively, a better emotion for her to walk out with than supposed heartache.

“I suspect there were deals made.” Tom voiced his suspicions. “Hemsworth, and by extension the Foundation and psionics in general, wouldn’t be crucified publicly, in exchange for the details of the murder being suppressed.”

“No wonder they buried him here, out of the way.” Else frowned. “That poor man.”

Tom wouldn’t have gone that far in sympathy. Hemsworth was still dangerous, still a killer, no matter the provocation.

“Thank you for telling me.” Elyse stood, determination clear in the lines of her body.

“Just remember,” he quietly urged her. “These are dangerous people. Don’t go poking them with a stick to get a reaction.”

“Oh, I will be a ninja of information gathering.” She leant down suddenly and brushed a kiss over his cheek. “Take care, Tom.”

He watched Elyse leave, the confident swing of her hips more eloquent than words, and experienced a moment of unease. Had he done the right thing? These _were_ dangerous people, ruthless people, and he truly didn’t want anything bad to happen to her. But, he reasoned to himself, she’d already known half the story, hadn’t she? Wasn’t it better that she went in to battle – and he didn’t doubt that that was exactly what she was going to do – fully armed with the truth? Or, as much truth as he’d been able to give her.

The unease morphed in to a spiky sort of irritation the further away he got from the Visits Hall. It was bloody aggravating, both the refusal of the family visit and Elyse walking out. Tom was experiencing his usual craving for skin contact after Noah’s ministrations and Elyse’s visits had been a handy means of at least partially relieving that. Yes, he had other visitors, and yes, he hugged some of them, but it wasn’t the same, there wasn’t that _frisson_ of possibility.

And he was self-aware enough to understand that some of the irritation could be put down to his being the one left behind this time - he usually did the walking away. Knowing this, however, didn’t improve his mood.

~~~oOo~~~

Jack’s closed-off expression at lunch, boding ill as it did, just added to Tom’s displeasure, but he pushed that aside so he could concentrate on dealing with whatever bad news was about to smack him in the face.

“Okay, what’s up?”

“Fatty Boyle and Doug Williams are on the transfer list for next week.”

“Oh, _brilliant_.”

Boyle and Williams were known associates of the only person Tom could bother naming as a nemesis. Louis Smeck was a gangster from the South East who’d taken exception to Tom rising up in the supply market. It could be coincidence that two of his thugs were being transferred here together, except Tom didn’t believe in coincidences.

“Going to be a problem, boss?” Rowdy asked. 

“Shouldn’t be. Not if the officers we’ve got stay bought.” 

Jack’s mouth twisted.

“ _What_?” Tom growled.

“Purboil and Frodgham are being transferred. Purboil to Lincoln, and Frodgham to Parkhurst.”

“Who did Frodgy piss off to get sent there?” Rowdy speculated aloud.

Tom didn’t groan, but it was close, neither did he bang his forehead on the table, which would’ve been his second action. Two of the guards on his payroll being transferred without warning? Definitely not a coincidence.

“Well, _si vis pacem_ , para bellum.” Rowdy said philosophically, the Latin rolling easily off his tongue.

“What's that?” Jack asked him, openly surprised.

Tom knew the phrase - _if you want peace, prepare for war_ \- and he suspected the old crim was right.

He sat back and sighed, resigning himself to the looming possibility of the fragile balance of his life tipping over in to well and truly fucked.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun DUN

The first anniversary of his mother’s death was coming up and Tom wasn’t sure how he was going to handle it. He wasn’t going to have any true privacy to... express any emotion that might spill out from where he’d locked it down so treating it as just another day was the best he could do, he supposed. He wasn’t going to mention it, and while Jack or Rowdy might remember the date they wouldn’t be trumpeting it to the rest of the prison. With luck he could conceivably get through without being compromised.

~~~oOo~~~

By coincidence or timing his little sister’s next visit was scheduled for the day before the anniversary, which was probably a good thing as Tom’s control on his temper had been variable over the days leading up to it. Seeing her on the day could be too volatile for both of them.

Tom had been eight years old, with two years of boarding school already behind him, when Felicity – _Flisty_ – was born. Her arrival had been memorable only in that he’d been allowed home that weekend so he could meet his new sister. Cradled in Mum’s arms she’d been so tiny, so fragile, so... alien-looking wrapped up in that fuzzy pink blanket, but she was heavier than she looked, he discovered when he was encouraged to hold her.

Tom hadn’t been quite sure what to do with himself that weekend, nothing had been planned, so he’d hung around with his mum while she went about caring for his sister. He was fascinated by the soft fuzz on the baby’s head; the way her fingers curled around his finger when he offered it; how something that small could make that much noise. 

Tom had been full of questions – which his mum had answered with good-natured patience – and as the hours passed he’d grown increasingly confident that he wasn’t going to hurt this little person. He’d been eager to help.

His father, who he hadn’t seen since he’d picked him up from school, had come in to the nursery unannounced and frowned to see Tom leaning in close to the baby as she was being fed, suckling contentedly at their mother’s breast. He grabbed him by the upper arm and pulled him away, dragging him towards the door.

“William, he’s not being a bother.” His mother’s protest was quiet.

“It’s unnatural for a boy to be watching this.”

Outside, in the corridor, his father had shoved him back against a wall then leant down so his face was close enough to Tom’s that he'd had trouble bringing him in to focus.

“You leave your mother alone. She’s tired. Go to your room and do your homework. I know you have some.”

He did as he was told, his arm throbbing where his father’s fingers had dug in, and gulping back tears of anger and confusion, because crying was something else boys didn’t do. He’d snuck back in to the nursery when he heard his father leave in the car and his mum welcomed him with a smile that promised that this was their secret.

He’d only been distantly fond of Flisty as she was growing up; being away most of the year meant he hadn’t spent enough time with her to form any sort of bond. It wasn’t until he was at home during that time between university and Sandhurst that he realised his thirteen year old sister was as intelligent as he was and shared the same dry sense of humour. He _liked_ her. They became friends.

Walking in to the Visits Hall now, he smiled to see her waiting, but it turned out she was in as prickly a mood as he was.

“ _Bastard_.” She muttered as she hugged him.

“What have I done now?”

“You kept Elyse dangling for years.”

Flisty had met Elyse through Tom and always liked her; she was the older sister she’d always wanted. She’d only been four when Claire had died.

“You’ve seen her recently?” Tom asked. “How is she?”

“You care? Really?”

“Of course I do.”

“Yes, you probably do. _In your way_.” Flisty’s lip curled before she consciously smoothed her expression. She ghosted a brief smile at him. “Sorry, I shouldn’t take my mood out on you.”

Tom wrestled down his own irritation. 

“What’s wrong? Mum’s anniversary?”

“No. Partly. Father’s decided it’s time I got married.” She said, high-pitched with a brittle, false cheer. “He’s been presenting me with suitors.”

“Oh, for fucks sake. You’re only twenty-three!”

“Older than mum was when she had you, I’m reminded weekly.” Her eyes, the same grey as their mother’s, were flinty.

Tom winced.

“Has it been bad?”

“Oh god, Tom...” 

He watched, horrified, as his normally vibrant sibling all but collapsed in on herself. 

“There’s one... He’s clearly dad’s top choice for son-in-law. He looks at me like I’m _meat_. Just the thought of him – “ She shuddered, haunted. “I can’t... pretend. I can’t...”

“Hey, hey now.” He said gently. “What can we do about this? Can we get you out of there?”

His sister snorted wetly.

“And go where? With what? He controls everything.”

It was true. Where Tom had been pushed away Felicity had been kept close. She’d gone to local schools, still prestigious, but not as a boarder. Tom had had access to his trust fund from twenty-one but their father had insisted she not get hers until she was twenty-five. She was given a small allowance and had to ask permission to do anything that involved leaving the house. Her purchases were scrutinised, particularly clothing, and there was a requirement that she keep receipts to account for everything she spent. She still hadn’t been allowed to get her licence so there was probably a driver waiting for her outside right now to take her straight home. She never said anything but Tom was pretty certain she had to negotiate hard for these monthly prison visits.

“I have money,” Tom lowered his voice. “I can get it to you. Secretly. He doesn’t have to know about it.”

“And then what? Run away from home?”

“Talk to Elyse. She’ll be able to advise you.” 

“She’s busy, got a bee in her bonnet about something.”

” _Talk to her_.” Tom stressed. _You’re not safe_ , he wanted to add, but didn’t because Flisty was smart enough to be well aware of that already.

“I’m going to visit mum tomorrow.” She changed the subject. “I’ll take some flowers for you.”

“Thanks. Say ‘hi’ for me.” The light tone he’d been aiming for fell flat and the siblings smiled ruefully at each other.

“Sooo... what’ve you been up to?” Flisty asked, and Tom settled in to fill up her allocated time with as much distracting nonsense as he could.

~~~oOo~~~

He tried to not let his frustration at being unable to help his sister _right now_ get to him, but it did, and that coupled with the looming potential of an emotional shitfest geared him up to be broody for the rest of the day. His subordinates left him in peace, but not alone as they acted as a buffer against everyone else. Tom was grateful for that and silently vowed to adequately express his thanks once this was all past.

He’d rarely been happier for lights out that night because he could now, finally, in the dark, be as alone as he could get. He let the memories come, let them have his full attention.

His mother had always seemed weak, emotionally, physically, and he’d despised her for that at times. As an adult he’d come to understand the nuances of her circumstances and tried to make up for his shittiness: what she put up with from her husband was bad enough, she didn’t need it from her son, too. In hindsight he’d been glad she had Felicity with her though at times he’d been jealous of their closeness, and resentful that his sister had been allowed to stay at home. 

He’d known his mother was sick well before he had to start working at the firm but followed her lead and pretended that nothing was wrong. He hadn’t been there when she’d died, he’d started serving his sentence by then, but he’d been allowed to go to her funeral, accompanied by two guards in adequate suits and concealed weapons. 

The media were out in force, much to his father’s disgust, and he’d glared at Tom, blaming him silently for the disruption, because of course they were there to see him, the disgraced golden son of privilege. Tom ignored them as they clamoured for photos, quotes, anything.

He got through the ceremony, including giving a short eulogy, choosing the one he’d written himself over the one helpfully provided by his father. That had pissed him off, that he wasn’t even trusted to say the right thing at his mother’s funeral. The look on his father’s face though when he realised that Tom was going off-script had been a bright spot in a leaden day.

His father hadn’t exchanged a single word with him, not until right at the end when they were standing outside the quaint, centuries old chapel. 

“It’s your fault she’s dead.” He’d snarled under his breath. “You killed her.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it was the cancer.” Tom’s response had been flat and venomous.

“If she hadn’t been so worried about _you_ she would’ve had the energy to fight it.”

“Oh of course, and your relentless philandering was never a factor, was it?” 

Tom felt cold satisfaction explode out from his heart, seeing his father hands ball up in to fists at his side. _Go on_ , he thought, _take a swing. Right here in front of everyone. Won’t the tabloids love that._

There was a soft clearing of a throat behind him.

“Time to go, Mr Hiddleston.”

Ah yes, the guards. Felicity, who’d been watching the exchange anxiously, hurried forward and threw herself in to a hug with him. 

“Take care, big bratter. Love you.”

“Love you too, little shitster.” He murmured, all the while staring unblinkingly at their father over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” One of the guards had offered as he showed him in to the car and put the handcuffs back on.

“Thank you.” Tom’s reply was automatic; he was already pushing the anger, grief and guilt as far down as possible.

~~~oOo~~~

 

“Captain...”

The formality of Jack’s tone alerted Tom and he looked up as Fatty Boyle and Doug Williams swaggered in to his cell. They’d been here for three weeks without saying boo to him, of course they’d choose – or been instructed – to approach him today, when he was perceived to be at his most vulnerable.

“Mr Smeck sends his condolences on the anniversary of your mother’s death – “ Boyle, who actually was the opposite of fat, smirked. “ – and hopes you’re not having too tough a time having to mingle with the rabble.”

Tom’s smile was cold and sharp: these idiots had inadvertently given him the perfect opportunity to vent. 

There’d been a lot of stupid commentary from the peanut gallery during his trial - vicious speculation about how he’d manage in prison, being who he was and where he’d come from, and sarcastic remarks welcoming him to ‘reality’ – but what the softcock socialists had failed to realise was that prison was as about as akin to ‘reality’ as the army had been. They were both hierarchical structures, and he’d been moving and thriving in those all his life. 

“I thank _Lou_ for his concern.” Tom was acidly amused to see them both scowl at his casual manner with their boss. “And do please let him know that even if we’d come from the same level of society, with the same advantages and disadvantages, I would still be better than him because I. Have. Brains.”

Jack and Rowdy had positioned themselves behind the glowering thugs.

“Mr Smeck isn’t going to – “

“ _Go fuck yourselves._ ” Tom cut Williams off with a sneer. “Or I could send someone to do that for you if it’s too difficult.”

“Time to go, lads.” Rowdy said with an unpleasant edge to his voice.

“You’re done, _Captain_.” Boyle stabbed a finger at Tom before flicking a disdainful glance at Jack and Rowdy. “You and your soft cunts.”

“ _Out._ ”

Jack had one of the most menacing growls Tom had ever heard and it gave him a deep, visceral pleasure to hear it unleashed on Smeck’s underlings. He watched impassively as Jack and Rowdy crowded the pair out of his cell.

“That went well.” Rowdy shook his head. “Fuckwits.” 

All three of them tensed as a figure appeared in the doorway.

“Hi,” said Hemsworth, holding up a paperback. “Just returning a book, if that’s okay?”

“Sure, come in.” Tom couldn’t manage a full smile but he relaxed fractionally. So did Jack and Rowdy. “What did you think of it?”

“Excruciating.”

“But it’s a classic of modern literature.” Tom was genuinely smiling now, if a little mockingly. 

“Still excruciating. Got something a bit more cheerful?” 

“Not sure about ‘cheerful’, how about ‘mindless action’?”

“Perfect.”

Hemsworth accepted the exchange, shaking Tom’s hand as he always did at the end of these meetings. Tom had noticed that he was the only one the psycher voluntarily touched and might have been flattered if he wasn’t suspicious by nature.

Hemsworth made to leave but paused at the door, looking back at Tom with a thoughtful frown.

“I know the first rule is ‘don’t get involved’ but the two guys who just left here...”

“Mm?” 

“They really don’t like you.” He included Jack and Rowdy in the statement.

“We’d worked that out ourselves.” Rowdy sniffed. 

“No. They _really_ don’t like you.” Hemsworth said. “I don’t think they’re just gonna glare at you from a distance. Anyway...” He saluted Tom with the book. “Thanks.”

“You reckon the double dickheads are going to step up the trouble, boss?” Jack asked, once the three of them were alone again.

“Yes,” Tom rubbed his hand over his face, tired and just wanting this day over. “I do.”

Smeck’s thugs may not have spoken to him until now but they’d already begun trying to disrupt the smooth running of Tom’s business by harassing some of his weaker, jumpier clients. He was going to have to smack them down, hard, and soon. There was more than just profit at stake.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special punctuation for mojo!
> 
> **::** indicates psionic communication  
>  **::** [indicates unguared thoughts]
> 
> Now! Thanks to [898700 (ghostwriter)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriter/pseuds/898700) for picking this up:
> 
> "...Flisty had met Elyse through Tom and always liked her; she was the older sister she’d always wanted. She’d only been four when Claire had died..."
> 
> Claire is Tom and Flisty's older half-sister from their father's first marriage. She was a psi who had trouble adapting to a limiter.  
> She was mentioned, but not named, in chapters 2 & 3.

“You all right?” 

Captain Thaddeus Martinsson was descended from Vikings, or so he claimed, citing his surname, pale colouring and heroic capacity for alcohol as proof. He’d been at university with Tom and was the main reason he’d even considered the military as an alternative to working at his father’s firm, let alone enlisting. Unlike Tom though, Tad was a natural soldier, happy and fulfilled in his career of taking orders and being shot at. 

“Yes, of course. Fine.” 

Tom mustered a confident smile for his visitor, who made a noise of disagreement.

“No, I know that look. You’re combat ready. What sort of trouble have you got yourself in to this time, Tommy?”

“Nothing. Honestly.”

Tom had forgotten how annoyingly perceptive Tad could be, and stubborn. He was giving him that sceptical raise of the eyebrows that indicated he wanted to argue the point. Tom really didn’t care to discuss it. 

_Give Tad a mission. Tad loves missions._

“Could you do something for me?”

“As long as it’s not illegal, immoral or fattening!” 

This had been Tad’s response to any request for help for as long as he’d known him. Ten plus years on and he still thought he was being hilarious. Tom obligingly chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Do you remember Elyse MacCrae?”

“That cracking ginger you were seeing a while back?

“Auburn, technically, but yes, that’s the one.” 

Tom leant forward: Tad mirrored him. _Good boy_. 

“Could you look in on her for me? I’m... a little concerned about some research she may be doing.”

“What sort of research? Dangerous?”

“I really can’t say, but look...” Tom paused, sighed. “Okay, this is awkward.” 

Tad’s pale blue eyes were bright with curiosity: Tom had his complete attention.

“Even if you don’t mention me she’ll have to know I’ve at least spoken to you about her.”

“True.” Tad concurred. “She only knows me through you.”

“Exactly, and given all that, she may not be... receptive to you.” 

Tom looked down, tapping his fingertips against the battered table top in an apparently nervous staccato. 

“What did you do?” 

_Give Tad a challenge. Tad loves challenges._

“Really don’t want to go in to details, but...” Tom grimaced, a genuine expression he could allow. “I hurt her. I know she doesn’t want to see me, but I’m still worried about her.”

Tad cocked his head to the side and regarded his buddy through narrowed eyes.

“Worried about her? Or feeling guilty?” 

“Heh, bit of both, if I’m going to be honest, yes.”

Tad nodded, then grinned.

“So. Let me recap the mission parameters. Contact the target - ”

“’ _Target_ ’!” Tom scoffed. “You military types.” 

“Contact the target. Gain intelligence as to her security status etc. Avoid mentioning you, be prepared for a hostile reception, report back findings when able. That it?”

Tom chuckled.

“Essentially.”

“Covert surveillance?”

“Not recommended. Direct approach is best.”

“Sir!” Tad snapped a salute that, though playful and he was sitting down, still managed to look crisp and efficient. Definitely the better soldier.

“You know you outrank me now, don’t you?”

“Not in civilian matters, Tommy.”

~~~oOo~~~

Tad’s visit had brought Tom a brief respite from his woes.

Ten days on from the confrontation with Smeck’s thugs and... nothing had happened. Well, nothing quantifiable at any rate, nothing he could put before the prison authorities without looking like a whiny baby. Reporting ‘threatening looks and/or hand gestures’ might be taken seriously sometimes in schools, but not here. Either he hadn’t given Boyd and Williams enough credit, or they were being expertly advised.

Tom still had the bulk of his client base but it was slowly being eroded. The loss by transfer of two of his guards hadn’t helped, and the painfully cautious negotiations to find others to replace them were frustratingly slow. 

Stressed and impatient, he’d overdone it with the weights after Noah’s last visit and now also had to contend with constant pain. It was manageable with the over the counter meds, thankfully, because he still refused to take anything stronger.

The tension was coiling inside him like a clichéd spring that he’d need to release somehow soon or things were going to get messy. He’d considered – he’d seriously considered – just saying ‘fuck it’ and stepping back, letting it all go. But he couldn’t, his pride and the possible consequences for him and his men stopped him. He’d built his reputation in here on being cool and collected, if he lost it, in any sense, it could – would – mean an acknowledgement of weakness, further corroding the respect he commanded. He couldn’t risk it.

He fancied he knew what might help, though.

Hemsworth had been in the Visits Hall at the same time Tom had been chatting to Tad. He’d been at the next table along, his back to Tom but he’d occasionally turned his head and Tom would catch a glimpse of his cheek, or chin, or the flash of light reflecting off the limiter. 

Tom hadn’t meant to but his attention had wandered somewhat off his own visitor as he contemplated the width of the psycher’s shoulders. He’d imagined them under his palms, imagined pressing his hands to Hemsworth’s shoulder blades, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling that solid body back towards him...

Tom was, he could admit to himself, touch starved. He hadn’t had sex in a very long time but it was more than that. Masturbation took the edge off however it was the skin-to-skin contact he was hungering after. He didn’t blame Elyse for cutting him off although it was still bloody inconvenient of her. 

The problem had been exacerbated in the last week because he’d become hyper vigilant about appearing weak. He’d begun strictly policing himself for lapses in control to the extent he was even restricting the few casual, friendly touches he’d previously been accustomed to bestow on Jack and Rowdy. It wasn’t healthy, he knew, but he was tired – so tired he felt like crying, which was _ridiculous_ , he was not a _child_ for fucks sake – and increasingly desperate for solitude. An hour, two, just to let his guard down and relax...

The attack, when it came a further tortuous week later, was something of a relief.

The wash room was notorious for this kind of thing and it’d been Rowdy who suggested they all go together, or at least in pairs, until the situation resolved. Rowdy had spent more time inside than out in his life and Tom was inclined to follow his advice on unofficial prison protocols. Rowdy had also suggested that Tom ‘tool up’ as well. Tom was well aware that both his lieutenants routinely carried shivs, but he’d steered clear of them figuring he was more likely to injure himself with an unfamiliar weapon. Still, he didn’t refuse when Jack pressed on him a toothbrush with the handle sharpened to a point.

He’d been half undressed when Boyd and Williams suddenly appeared. There was no time to make a sound, no time for anything before Boyd was on him. He dodged the first punch but the second landed squarely against his ribs between his armpit and waist, blasting the breath out of him and whiting out his vision with pain. He was dimly aware of the other three combatants scuffling, then he was shoved, hard, backwards in to a shower recess, clipping his skull on the edge of the partition. He twisted, landing badly and smacking the side of his head on the tiles. He had the brief, crystal clear thought that the wrenching agony in his back was probably bad news and then -

~~~oOo~~~

:: Tom

:: ... 

:: Tom

:: ... ?

:: it’s okay keep your eyes closed pretend you’re asleep

:: ... Hemsworth? Are you...?

:: I am I’ll explain later don’t have much time

:: what happened?

:: you were attacked there’s muscle damage to your back but no fractures

:: Jack Rowdy?

:: Jack has a massive head injury don’t think he’s going to wake up. Rowdy didn’t make it sorry

:: nonono

:: shh shh stay calm you’re gonna trip the monitors

:: how did he...?

:: protecting you put up a devil of a fight both your guys did

:: Boyd Williams...

:: both dead Rowdy killed them

:: [don’t believe you]

:: what...? 

Tom heard footsteps approaching, soft-soled shoes on a polished linoleum floor: the information came in through his ears with a fantastically weird dissonance. He kept his eyes shut.

:: what did you say...?

“Chris, sorry, you’re going to have to leave.”

Male. Low-voiced. Scottish.

“Can I come back tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

Definitely Scottish.

“Thanks, Simon.”

Oh, _Simon_. He knew Simon.

Tom felt a soft, warm touch on the back of his hand that almost startled him enough to stop shamming.

:: I’ll be back later rest now you’re safe

Tom, too overwhelmed to process anything more, thankfully slid down in to true sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for a change of POV!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chris' perspective of events. (The POV will probably bounce back and forth now. Thank you, [898700 (ghostwriter)](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostwriter/pseuds/898700) for the nudge.)
> 
> I claim no authority in knowing how prisons actually run.
> 
> Please note the added tags for blood and violence etc.

His feelings on seeing Hiddleston lying there unconscious and half-naked were... complicated. His reaction though as Goon One, Boyd, moved towards the helpless man with something sharp in his hand, was pure instinct.

Chris had shied away from analysing too closely his snap decision to shadow the thugs since they’d confronted Hiddleston. Yes, they were a threat to the autocratic dickhead but why did he care? Some lingering sense of obligation, perhaps, to ‘The Captain’ for saving his life, despite giving him information in exchange? Whatever, the threat had manifested and now he could act.

Boyd’s attention was entirely focused on Hiddleston - the other three men were down and not moving so he’d likely dismissed their presence - and he didn’t hear Chris move up fast and silent behind him. His surprise when a large hand clamped around his chin and yanked his head back gave Chris the split second distraction he needed to wrap his leg around Boyd’s, anchoring him in place while he grabbed his weapon hand. 

Chris was aware of the rage boiling up inaccessibly at the back of his brain and acknowledged that he wasn’t going to be able to use that as an excuse this time. So be it. 

His grip around Boyd’s fingers was so tight it didn’t allow him to drop the weapon. Breathing hard through clenched teeth, Chris forced the thug’s hand back toward his body. Boyd’s straining, muffled grunts morphed to a whine when he realised what Chris was trying to do. He was strong and he struggled, clawing with his free hand at the arm restraining him, but he was off-balance and outmatched. The little knife stabbed deep in to his neck and dragged down. Chest heaving, Chris dropped the twitching body, stepping back hastily to keep out of the way of the blood. 

Quickly, hyper aware of the passing time – because while the guards had been suspiciously absent from this area as he’d been going in someone was bound to be along at any moment - he checked the other combatants. He wanted to be well away from there before the alarm was raised.

Rowdy’s eyes were open and staring; the blood soaking down his chest from the ragged gash in his neck was all Chris needed to see. Jack was crumpled on the floor a little way over. He was breathing shallowly and rapidly but there was a large and spreading pool of blood forming around his head. Goon Two, Williams... Chris couldn’t tell at a glance what had happened to him but he wasn’t breathing. 

Chris spared another few seconds to check Hiddleston. The pulse at his neck was thready but regular. He also had some head injuries but they didn’t seem to be as bad as Jack’s. 

He reluctantly took his hand away from Hiddleston’s cooling skin, _not_ allowing his fingertips to trail down that long throat or over the tattoo on his shoulder, then dived towards the sinks. He rinsed the blood off his hands and forearms, biting back a hiss as the water touched the scratches Boyd had left. Chris stripped off his blood-splashed uniform shirt and folded it so the stains weren’t obvious: no one was going to comment on him walking around in his singlet. His trainers had been splashed with blood, too, but as they were black it wasn’t that noticeable. He could wash them later. A swift inspection of his trousers showed they were clean enough to pass. Chris draped his folded shirt over the scratches on his arm then left the wash room at a jog, looking back to make sure he wasn’t leaving any shoe prints. 

He slowed to a saunter as he entered the main corridor, making straight for his cell. He shrugged in to a clean shirt, rolling the sleeves down over his forearms, then without stopping to question himself, began collecting his few possessions on top of his bed. He tossed his pillow in with the lot then tugged the bed linen free of the mattress and bundled everything up in to an untidy parcel. 

Dorney was there, on his side of the room, watching all of this in silence.

“Whatchu doing?”

 _I have no idea_.

Chris went to lean oh-so-casually against the door frame of their cell: from there he could see Hiddleston’s cell, across the way and down the corridor a little. 

“Gonna be moving out.” 

“What? _Why?_ ”

“I thought you wanted me gone?”

Dorney was silent as he clearly deliberated the ramifications of anything he could say. Chris, thrumming with restless energy, ignored him and turned back to his vigil. 

A few minutes later there was a flurry of communication amongst the guards and they scattered purposefully. Chris watched three of them go in to Hiddleston’s cell. He waited, jaw clenched, as one of them came out and hurried away, to return shortly with a couple of storage boxes. Another minute or so and all three of them had finally left, pulling shut the cell door. By then the inmates in the immediate vicinity were well aware that something was up. 

Chris scooped up his stuff and winked at his confused - and pretending not to be alarmed - cell mate.

“See ya.” 

He sprinted over to Hiddleston’s cell before anyone else had even thought to move. It wasn’t locked: he slipped inside, setting his bundle on the floor before reclosing the heavy door. 

The place had been ransacked, cupboards and shelves emptied and the contents thrown haphazardly around. The beds had been stripped, the mattresses pulled off the frames. The toilet cistern had also been searched but the cover hadn’t been replaced, still leaning precariously against the bowl. 

Chris tutted his disapproval and begun tidying up as the alarm finally sounded. 

“Bloody hell!” 

The guard had flung open the door and scuttled in without looking. He evidently hadn’t expected anyone to be there. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing, Hemsworth?”

Chris looked over from where he was replacing Hiddleston’s mattress.

“Moving in, sir.”

“Get back to your own cell!”

Chris held the guard’s uneasy gaze and said nothing.

“Jesus, whatever, I don’t have time for this.” He handed Chris a laundry bag and a storage box. “Make yourself useful then. Pack up Pasquale’s stuff.”

“Why? Where’s he going?” 

“Just do it.” The guard snapped. He paused at the door then whipped around to glare at Chris. 

“How did you know this cell was going to be vacant?”

 _Oops_. 

For the umpteenth time in his life, Chris silently cursed his impulsiveness. Not thinking things through before leaping in had forever been a problem. He did what he always did in these situations: he bluffed.

“Uh, a hunch?”

The guard’s eyes narrowed further.

“’A _hunch_ ’?”

Yeah, Chris had never been all that good at bluffing either. Growing up with psionics that knew when you were bullshitting? It was easier to just not lie.

The guard rubbed his forehead.

“You know what? I don’t care. This is all above my pay scale. Just... pack up Pasquale’s stuff...”

He shut the door and locked it behind him: Chris could hear the same thing happening along the rest of the wing, meaning a lock-down had been instigated, standard procedure after any sort of trouble. He heard the guard who’d locked him in tell someone, probably whoever was in charge of the head count, that he was in Hiddleston’s cell, and no, he had no idea why. 

Well, he was here for the duration now, anyway. He got to work.

The thing Chris noticed as he sorted through Jack’s gear was the quality of his kit. When you handed in your kit for washing you were issued replacements but those sheets and clothes and towels could’ve been used by a million guys before you. Stains, holes, and busted seams weren’t unusual, but Jack’s stuff was clean, properly clean, and in good repair. A cursory rummage through Hiddleston’s kit revealed the same. Chris expected Hiddleston to have the resources to pay for private laundering, but had he sprung for that service for his minions as well? Chris couldn’t remember specifically anything about the state of Rowdy’s clothes but it was likely he’d also benefitted.

He experienced tugs of grief as he packed away the remnants of Jack’s life. It was the small things that did it, the personal things, photos, a few children’s drawings, a rosary of dark wooden beads. Chris realised with a jolt that he knew nothing about Jack, or Rowdy, other than their association with Hiddleston. It seemed wrong not to know, like _not knowing_ was _not caring_ , like he was already losing layers of his humanity. The grief swelled to include the gut deep ache for what he’d had, and what he was desperately missing. He really wished he could speak to Indie or Karl...

He’d pulled himself back together by the time the guard reappeared with a couple of other inmates in tow. They were directed to pick up the full box and bag sitting on the floor.

“Is that all?” The guard asked.

“Yep.”

“Including food?”

Chris shrugged.

“Didn’t see the point in packing that.”

“Yeah, fine, don’t eat it all at once.” The guard grumbled as he left.

“Come back when the lock-down’s finished.” Chris murmured to the two prisoners before they trailed out with their loads, before he was shut in again.

There hadn’t been a lot of food left, and what there was had been jumbled together so Chris couldn’t be sure who’d owned what. He kept aside a couple of packs of biscuits for himself, and a few choice things for Hiddleston, which he’d have no qualms about claiming if he didn’t return. The rest he was planning to give away, because he was nice, or use as barter. What had the guards carted off, two boxes worth, when they’d been in here earlier?

~~~oOo~~~

The lock-down lasted just over three hours: that seemed kind of short but Chris hadn’t been in prison long enough to become a connoisseur. He’d heard stories of these things going on for days.

“Hey.” 

Dorney stood awkwardly in the doorway.

“Hey.” Chris answered with a smile.

He liked Dorney. Sure, the tall black man was scared of him but he was open about it and didn’t try to hide it behind stupid macho shit. He’d helped him, too, back in his first days here when everything had been a grey fog and he’d barely been able to move let alone comply with prison regulations. 

Chris picked out two tins of chilli tuna, which he knew was Dorney’s favourite, and tossed them to him. He got a genuine smile for that.

“Aw, thanks, man.” 

“Well, you know, hate to leave you in the lurch trying to find a new roommate at short notice.”

“You definitely staying here?”

“Until they try to prise me out, yeah.”

Dorney fiddled with the cans for a moment.

“I heard there was a fight in the wash room. That’s why the lock-down. The Captain, Jack and Rowdy against those two shitstain bruisers.” 

Wary, his eyes flicked to Chris as he put the pieces together. 

“Fuck me, you already knew that. How?”

He asked the question like he didn’t want to know the answer.

“I sensed it in the aether, of course.”

Chris grinned, as if he was making a joke and Dorney responded with a nervous laugh that cut short.

“Right then. Good luck.” Dorney disappeared again.

The two prisoners who’d helped haul Jack’s stuff away returned, approaching him nervously, eyeing the metal in his temple. Chris suspected they’d only come back because he intimidated them, but he invited them to take their pick of what was left of the food and they relaxed a little. They offered their names without prompting - Beckett and Dave - or rather Beckett did as Dave said nothing, then ‘Beckers’ told Chris what they’d overheard from the guards. It didn’t add anything new to his understanding, other than to confirm that Williams had died, and the authorities weren’t sure how they were going to report the incident. 

Chris thanked them and they shuffled out, but Dave stopped at the door.

“If you need anything, yeah?”

He was olive skinned with hazel eyes and tight black curls that lay close to his skull. Beckers, a rangy white guy with startling acne, stared at Dave as if he’d gone mad then gave Chris a sickly and unconvincing smile: he wasn’t onboard with this idea.

“Cheers.” Chris said and Dave smiled and lowered his eyes, letting Beckers hustle him away from there. 

Several curious faces peered in over the next couple of hours but all Chris had to do was level an unblinking stare at them and the gawkers took off. By the time the evening meal rolled around he was pretty sure none of the inmates were going to dispute his claim to Hiddleston’s space. He ate alone, very conscious of the absence of Hiddleston and his men.

 

After dinner he took himself off to the hospital wing for his injection, as usual. He asked the rostered nurse, Shirley, if she’d heard anything about what had happened. She gave him a look then shrugged.

“All I can say is that there were three deaths and two casualties. The casualties have been taken to hospital for further treatment.”

Two casualties? Jack had survived? That was heartening.

The wash room was off-limits, unsurprisingly, so Chris made do with a quick wash in the cell’s hand basin before lights out. The scratches on his arm had scabbed over and wouldn’t take long to heal. He washed the blood off his trainers and stuffed them full of toilet paper to help them dry overnight. 

Later, with nothing else to conveniently distract him, he finally had to give some attention to trying to work out what he’d done, and why. There was ‘ _impulsive_ ’ and then there was ‘ _what-the-hell-man?_ ’.

He fell asleep before he could come to any meaningful conclusion, the tranquilizer working its way through his body.

~~~oOo~~~

The next day passed without the excitement of the previous. Christ spent the morning reading one of Hiddleston’s books - and incidentally stopping himself from thinking too much - as he waited for word that the wash room was open again. He needed to exercise but was reluctant to do any if he couldn’t shower afterwards. He had standards of personal hygiene, even if some of the other blokes in here didn’t.

He was able to exercise, and shower, by late afternoon. There was no trace of blood in the wash room; the clean-up crew had done a sterling job.

Simon, the Scottish nurse, was rostered on that evening and Chris had no hesitation in asking him about ‘the casualties’. Simon was naturally chatty, and he was attracted to Chris, it remained to be seen if that was enough to get him to break patient confidentiality.

It was. Simon, voice lowered, gave Chris a detailed update. Jack was still in hospital, in a coma, and not thought to recover. He was probably going to be transferred to a palliative care place within the week. Hiddleston though, he was back already after scans had shown there was nothing that couldn’t be treated in the prison. He’d only copped some soft tissue damage to his back, and while the gashes on his scalp looked bad and had needed stitching, his skull was intact. 

“Can I visit him?” Chris asked.

“He’s heavily sedated.” Simon warned.

“Please?”

The Scottish nurse relented, as Chris thought he might. 

“Only for a couple of minutes, and I have to stay with you.”

Hiddleston was flat on his back on the bed, pale but breathing normally on his own. There was the expected tubing and monitors, and through the bandages covering the wounds on his head, Chris could see he’d had his hair shaved off. That was unexpectedly upsetting. 

“Just a couple of minutes...” Simon whispered, standing guard at the door. 

Chris rested his forearm on the bed, casual like, just coincidentally touching Hiddleston’s wrist with his fingers. 

He let himself focus...

 _There_.

Chris almost laughed, the rush of relief threatening to make him giddy: _he hadn’t been imagining it_.

He :: _called_ to Hiddleston but he was too far under to respond. 

“Chris, sorry but you’ve got to go.”

“Can I visit him tomorrow?”

“We’ll see.”

Chris beamed a smile at the nurse, watched him blink and colour at the force of it: he wasn’t above using his looks to get what he wanted.

“Thanks, Simon, really appreciate this.”

~~~oOo~~~

_Oh, now, that had been interesting._

Simon had let him visit Hiddleston – Tom – again the next evening, even leaving them alone for a few minutes. Hiddleston – _Tom_ – hadn’t been as heavily sedated and he’d responded this time when Chris :: _called_. 

He’d slipped easily in to telepathic conversation, without the freak-out that usually happened when a standard was contacted by a psionic. Chris had thought it was strange, until he remembered that psi-comms were part of officer training so Tom’d had previous exposure. He’d had an older sister too, hadn’t he, who’d been psionic?

But that last thing he’d communicated, about not believing him, that was puzzling. It had the flavour of an unconscious thought, and Chris, even though he had no way of accurately estimating his abilities yet, didn’t think he was capable of that level of perception yet. 

It was inconvenient but unsurprising that Hiddleston – Tom – hadn’t accepted his explanation about Rowdy. Chris should’ve expected the question to come up at some point and planned for it, but he’d been so... distracted and excited about the break through communication that of course he hadn’t thought, just blurted the first dumb thing that came to mind. He’d do a better job explaining things tomorrow, when they :: _spoke_ again.

Chris’ mood was buoyant as he drifted off to sleep, with just the barest edging of guilt. He'd still managed to dodge examining the motivations for his behaviour.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me :)
> 
> There might be a delay with the next chapter, sorry in advance, r/l is picking up momentum.

“Sure.” Simon smiled at Chris the next evening when he asked, as usual, if he could see Tom. “He was awake a bit earlier but he’s probably gone back to sleep.”

Chris smiled back. 

“He’s been awake? That’s great!”

“We pulled the sedation right back today and he’s been coming out of it slowly. He’s had something to eat, and should be able to get out of bed tomorrow.” Simon kept his voice down as he walked with Chris to the door of the room and peeked in. “Yeah, he’s sleeping.” 

Chris looked at Tom’s face, noting the tiny frown pulling his brows together and guessed he probably wasn’t as asleep as the nurse thought. 

“Can I still go in?” He whispered.

“Should be okay.”

The lighting was dim but not dark; most of the tubing and monitors were gone from around Tom, though the – Chris squinted to read what was printed on the bag of clear fluid still feeding in to the back of his hand – saline drip remained. 

Tom’s frown had deepened a smidgeon as Chris took his seat beside the bed. He touched his fingertips to Tom’s wrist and:

:: - WILL TELL ME EXACTLY WHAT’S GOING ON

:: whoa hey:: Chris managed not to flinch. :: no need to shout

:: why didn’t you answer me

:: I couldn’t hear you until I touched you

Tom’s impatience bled through in to his mental tone.

:: what

:: I can only communicate telepathically when I’m touching someone

:: why didn’t you tell me yesterday

:: there wasn’t time

:: do you have time now:: The sarcasm was unmistakeable. :: why touch only is that your normal range

:: no it’s - 

:: how are you working past the limiter is that a fake

:: will you let me get a word in edgeways?

:: ...

:: thank you. The limiter is real and did at first deaden my abilities

:: at first

:: brains can be kinda plastic

Chris let the idea hang.

:: I don’t follow _wait_ are you healing

:: yep. New neural pathways being formed as we speak

:: does that happen normally the limiters would have to be adjusted periodically

Chris could almost taste the ozone of Tom’s rapid thought and it made him smile.

:: you’re not being monitored 

:: gold star for you!

:: [don’t be a fucking dick] that’s why you’re here and not at the psycher institute 

:: two gold stars! 

Chris wasn’t going to try and explain the psionic politics involved in the decision. 

:: [dick] when did you know... you shook my hand... were you _testing_

Okay, so Hiddleston _was_ as smart as he looked.

:: I was being polite to start with, but then there was... something

Chris’d been told, eventually, very quietly since this absolutely wasn’t common knowledge, that he could – might – heal around the limiter. So of course he’d been looking for signs of that and Tom had been the ideal test subject because, well, he was the only person he had direct skin-to-skin contact with. The medical staff always wore gloves and no one else would come within two feet of him if they could help it. 

:: why are they letting you heal 

:: because some of my colleagues don’t think I deserved to lose my abilities

:: [you murdered him] 

:: I killed Meerkins in defence of a child it’s not the same

There was a moment of tense silence then Tom deliberately, clumsily, threw up mental shields that Chris recognised as a discipline taught to standards to guard against psionic intrusion. They were more of a ‘don’t go here’ warning than actual protection - a strong enough, unprincipled enough psi could cut through them easily – but it helped the standards feel safe. Chris then realised he’d responded to one of Tom’s unguarded thoughts. 

:: how far in to my head did you go

:: I can only pick up what you tell me

:: HOW FAR

The normal reaction of a standard at this point would’ve been to break physical contact and cease communication but Tom didn’t do that. It’s possible it didn’t occur to him but Chris doubted that: he thought he might be beginning to get a true idea of the man’s discipline. 

:: surface thoughts only I swear to you, but a couple of things that might’ve slipped up from a deeper level. You calling me a dick, mostly

Tom’s lips twitched towards a smile but he didn’t open his eyes.

:: you can’t probe

:: I can’t probe. Even if I could, I wouldn’t without bloody good reason

:: it’s illegal

:: and I was brought up to be respectful of people’s privacy

Tom visibly relaxed but the shields stayed in place.

:: tell me what you know about the fight

Chris gave Tom the version of the story that was going around, that he’d been knocked out, that Jack and Rowdy had killed Boyd and Williams, that Rowdy had died from his injuries and that Jack was in a coma after head trauma.

:: now tell me the truth

:: what?

Tom’s eyes were just noticeably open and he was staring at Chris’ face.

:: I know when you’re lying 

:: ... I’m not lying

:: not telling me the truth either tell me the truth

Chris gnawed at his lip, uncomfortable and unsure: how did Tom know he wasn’t being completely truthful? How much should he tell him? He didn’t need to know about his part in it. 

_If in doubt_ – his foster mum had always said – _be honest_.

Chris told him everything.

:: I’d been keeping tabs on Boyd and Williams since they’d been to see you that day in your cell...

Tom listened without interrupting until he’d finished, then:

:: you killed Boyd

:: he was going to kill you and I’m pretty sure it’d been him that’d killed Rowdy

:: shitshitshit Rowdy:: Tom veered off in another direction. :: I’ll set something up for his daughter and grandkids what about Jack

:: Simon mentioned palliative care a couple of days ago but haven’t heard anything else since

:: Jack has no relatives in the UK they’re probably going to put him in one of those wretched public places no no he’s going somewhere decent where he’ll be properly looked after

Tom’s eyes were fully open now and he was moving restlessly underneath the thin hospital sheets.

:: you can go now get the nurse for me

Chris, annoyed at the abrupt dismissal, muttered aloud but under his breath as he stood up. 

“ _By your command, Imperious Leader_.” 

He regretted it almost immediately though, when the first thing Tom did when Simon came in was to request pain relief. 

“And I want to speak to my solicitor.” Tom continued, curt and raspy. “ _My_ solicitor. Andrea Murtell Jones...”

Chris lingered long enough to hear Simon murmur a reply and catch Tom’s snappish response.

“Then tomorrow. _First thing_.”

Chris made his way back to his cell, unconsciously rubbing together the fingertips that’d touched Tom’s skin. There was a hollow, anxious pit forming in his stomach, the sort that used to appear when he’d realised he’d made a big mistake or disappointed someone. Which was it this time? 

He opened the last packet of choc-mint biscuits and scoffed the lot before lights out.

~~~oOo~~~

Tom woke early the next morning, ravenous and desperate to piss. He submitted to the indignity of a urine bottle – for the last time, Simon assured him, as the drip was coming out soon – and was given cereal and a cup of tea for breakfast. He was seriously contemplating a nap before the doctor came to see him, when he was informed he had a visitor.

Unfortunately it wasn’t Andrea, Andi, who strode in and took possession of the plastic chair beside the bed. 

“Tom.”

“James.”

James was part of his legal team and as such allowed to visit pretty much anytime. He was also an associate of his father’s who’d insisted he be part of Tom’s defence. They didn’t shake hands.

“Your father isn’t pleased.”

“He rarely is.”

Tom waited, saying nothing, expression bland: he was better at this game than _James_.

“A condition of your being shifted to a – _ahah_ – softer place was that you keep your head down and don’t pull any shit. This - ” he indicated the room, the hospital wing. “ – is not ‘keeping your head down’. It made the papers, Tom. You were named.”

When he’d been sentenced, and there was no avoiding that given the severity of the charges, no matter how much influence his father had with the judge, Tom had agreed to an exchange of sorts. He would serve his term without complications, no ‘incidents’, nothing to bring further shame to the family name, and in return he would be moved as soon as possible out of the mandatory maximum security facility to a medium security one where he’d have more autonomy. 

“This was not my fault.” Tom countered. “I didn’t instigate this fracas.”

“Really? You were attacked without provocation?” James was openly sceptical. “You are completely innocent in all this?”

“I did nothing.”

The lawyer snorted his disbelief.

“Anyway, William is considering his options in regards to you and your inheritance.”

That had been something else that’d hinged on his behaviour in prison: don’t cause trouble – which Tom had wilfully interpreted as ‘don’t get caught’- and he wouldn’t be disinherited.  
Well, fuck his father: Tom didn’t need his bloody money, or his connections. 

“Here’s a thought, James. If my father is _so_ disappointed in me, he could get another wife, his own for preference this time, and he could try to breed himself another heir.”

It was petty, he knew, but satisfying, this dig at his dad’s apparent ability to father mostly girls. William was a traditionalist who believed that sons were more important than daughters because they carried on the family name. Aside from Claire and Flisty, Tom had three other siblings that he knew about, all girls, all illegitimate. One son, five daughters? Not a promising ratio, and William would have to get a move on if he wanted to try again, he was nearly seventy. 

James did nothing at all to disguise his loathing of Tom.

“Well.” He stood up. “I’ve delivered the message.”

James didn’t bother saying goodbye, neither did Tom, but he stopped by the door, turning casually, as if something had just occurred to him. 

“The last time you spoke to Felicity, did she mention any holiday plans?”

Tom had never been fooled by this buffoon’s shoddy attempts at acting.

“No.” He replied, after a moment of pretending to think. “Nothing.”

James left without another word. Tom waited until he heard him being escorted through the hospital wing’s guarded doors before he smiled. Had Flisty gone missing? How _inconvenient_ , assuming she’d got away on her own, that is. No, Tom told himself firmly, his clever sister had found a way out and he'd chose to believe that until he had more information.

~~~oOo~~~

The drip came out, then the doctor checked his head wounds, declaring they were healing well enough he could switch to a lighter type of dressing. 

Noah came by later that afternoon to assess his back injury and furnish him with a walking stick. Tom had used one before and wasn’t a fan but at least this time it could double as a weapon if need be. He practiced getting in and out of bed, and walking around. He celebrated taking a piss all on his own for the first time in days.

He heard Hemsworth come in to the hospital wing in the evening but didn’t see him. Shirl, the other night nurse, was more of a stickler for the rules than Simon, which was a shame because Tom would’ve like a visitor: he was going out of his mind with boredom.

The following day was almost a carbon copy of the previous with the exception that Tom got to wear real clothes – prison uniform at least – instead of hospital gowns, and the doctor said he could be discharged the next morning. Tom was glad to be getting out of there, but at the same time ambivalent about returning to the prison. He wasn’t keen on finding out just how much his status had changed, but it had to be faced at some point, and better sooner rather than later.

The other point of difference was that Andi, his solicitor, was able to get in to see him. He didn’t mention James’ visit, it was quite likely she didn’t know, and instead focused on giving her detailed instructions about Jack’s medical care, and setting up a fund to help Rowdy’s daughter and her children for the next few years.

Again Shirl wouldn’t let Hemsworth in to see him but no matter, he’d probably catch up with him tomorrow. Tom wondered if the psycher realised how much power he’d given him, telling him about his involvement in Boyd’s death? He wasn’t stupid so perhaps he was just naive... 

~~~oOo~~~

Chris had decided he didn’t much like Shirl. Yes, she was only doing her job, being professional and all that, but she hadn’t let him in to see Tom now twice in a row and his skin was itching. And _yes_ , that was probably psychosomatic, a physiological manifestation of his craving for psionic contact but it was still irritating, so he was genuinely surprised and delighted when Tom appeared at the door of the cell after breakfast. 

“Oh, hey!” Chris grinned at him, putting the book he was reading – another one of Tom’s – down beside him on his bed . “Welcome back.” 

“... hi.”

Tom murmured his thanks to the guard who’d accompanied him before stepping inside. He was using a walking stick but seemed to be moving freely enough.

“They didn’t tell me I had a new roommate.”

“Uh, no, it’s kind of informal.”

Chris watched him poke through his cupboard and shelf.

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the guards turned this place over, just after the fight.” Chris wanted to touch him, badly enough he contemplated sitting on his hands to stop himself. “They were in here really quickly, before the alarm sounded. They didn’t leave much behind but I saved what I could for you.”

Chris was also willing himself to stop talking because he was _burbling_.

Tom let out a long, sighing breath.

“Thank you.” 

And then he was heading out the door again. Chris sprang to his feet.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to make a visit while the pain killers are still working.”

“I’ll come with you.”

Tom looked like he was going to protest but said nothing, merely lifting a shoulder before heading off to the right and down the long corridor. Chris walked beside him, hands in pockets, matching his slower pace. 

Chris was aware they were being watched and he followed Tom’s lead in ignoring it. They’d gone past several cells before they were finally interrupted. 

“So, Captain. How you doing? Feeling chipper?”

Chris knew this one by sight: shorter, broad, smelly. He used the gym equipment in an unnecessarily aggressive manner.

“Was there something, Rattray?” Tom’s eyes were cold, his lips pinched in to a thin line. “I’m busy.”

“Just being friendly like, seeing how you’re faring.” 

Rattray’s expression as he took in Tom’s walking stick, his posture and the dressings on his scalp was disdainful, insolent. Chris wanted to shake him.

“Have you found another supplier, then? You’re a bit twitchy.” Tom locked eyes with Rattray and Chris was pleased to see him back down almost immediately. “ _Don’t test me_.”

He continued glaring flatly at the man until he stepped aside.

“I swear,” Tom sighed once they were out of probable hearing range. “Some of the people in here can barely function as adult humans.”

They’d walked almost to the end of the corridor before Tom stopped and knocked on a half-open cell door.

“Arthur...?”

An older man, older than Rowdy, peered out. He was weathered and grey-faced but he smiled broadly when he saw Tom, his dentures slipping ever so slightly. 

“Young Thomas, you’re back!” He opened the door and ushered them in. “Sit down, please. How’ya doin’, orright?”

“Good, thanks, Arthur.” 

Tom sat on the second, unmade bed: Chris remained standing by the door as he wasn’t sure the invitation to sit had been extended to him. 

Tom waved a vague hand in his direction. 

“This is Chris. Chris – Arthur. Rowdy’s cell mate.”

“Hi.” Arthur nodded at him, then turned back to Tom and pulled a comically over emphasised look of admiration. “He’s a big’ un, isn’t he?”

“He is.” Tom agreed with a slight smile, then his expression shifted to something more serious. “I’m sorry about Rowdy.”

Arthur sat down on his bed, heaving a gusty sight.

“I’m gonna miss the old cunt but he knew what he was about. And by all accounts he went down fighting?”

“So I heard. I’d already been knocked out by then but he probably saved my life.” Tom leant forward. “The guards went through my cell, I assume, they went through yours?

“Yes, bastards, didn’t discriminate between mine and Rowdy’s stuff.”

“Make me a list of what was taken and I’ll see about replacing it. I expect you to be mostly honest.”

Arthur laughed, a uneasy rattling sound that didn’t bode well for his lungs. 

“I’ll bear that in mind, Captain, I will.” His face dropped in to a frown. “While you were away certain elements got a bit restive.” He shrugged. “I done what I could but fings’ll need to start moving again.”

“I understand, and I appreciate your help.” Tom stood up, using his walking stick for leverage. Chris resisted the urge to leap forward and offer him his hand. 

“Off already, then?”

“Yes, sorry, Arthur. Need to get back before the pain killers wear off.” Tom raised his eyebrows, a sardonic acknowledgment of his current situation. “Thanks for seeing me. Take care.”

“Righto, Captain.” Arthur gave Chris a friendly nod.

“He’s a bit of a character.” Chris observed when they were on their way back. Tom half-smiled without humour and didn’t look at him.

“Forty years ago Arthur persuaded his girlfriend to kill his wife. Then he killed his girlfriend, because he was sick of them both.”

“Oh...”

“Rowdy was in this last stretch for armed robbery.” Tom continued. “And Jack had a GBH at a pub fight. I supplied class A narcotics that killed some users.” He looked at Chris, expression serious. “This is a prison. Nobody is in here by mistake, don’t forget that.”

Chris felt like he’d been chastised and so said nothing, and Tom was disinclined to speak. They walked back to their cell in silence. 

Tom made straight for his bed, easing himself down and stretching out flat on his back. He draped his forearm over his eyes and let out another sighing breath. Chris dithered for a bit.

“I’m going to the gym. Will you be all right?”

“Yes. I’m just going to sleep.”

“I’ll be back before lunch.”

Chris paused at the door of the cell.

“Am I your bodyguard now?”

“Depends.” Tom wasn’t smiling but he could hear it in his voice. “Would you hit someone if I asked you to?”

“Probably not.” Chris replied. “Unless they were hitting you first. Then you might not need to ask.”

Tom did smile then and it felt like a victory to Chris.

“Oh good, I feel so much safer already...”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, so, updated a few days later than anticipated. Oops.
> 
> (but I do believe there's an end in sight. Huzzah! )

Tad, grinning, stood up as Tom approached.

“Been in the wars, mate?” 

“You’re hilarious.” Tom observed wryly as he was pulled in to a careful hug. “You should be on the stage.”

Tad watched him ease down on to the plastic chair, not making it obvious he was ready to help if necessary. 

“Nasty?” 

He was checking out the healing scars on Tom’s scalp with a professional eye. The wounds didn’t need dressing any more but the stitches had yet to be removed. 

“Nah.” Tom ran his hand over the gingery blond stubble that currently called itself his hair. “Bled a lot, like most head wounds, but nothing worse.”

“It’s that thick Hiddleston skull that saved you.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Tad nodded towards the lone cherry bakewell tart on the table.

“Elyse said to get you one of those.”

“Ooh, thanks!” Tom reached for it with unfeigned pleasure.

“There’s media reports the Minister for Prisons, or whatever he is, has promised there’ll be an enquiry into ‘the incident’.” He grinned. “That’s what they’re calling it. The Incident.”

Tom snorted.

“That’s giving it more dignity than it deserves. It was a fight in a bathroom.” He shrugged. “If there’s going to be an enquiry it’ll probably only be internal, which means the right questions will unfailingly be asked of the wrong people. I won’t hold my breath for results or recommendations any time soon.”

“Or recompense?” Tad swiped a bit of the sweet crust Tom had foolishly left unguarded. “You could sue. They’re supposed to keep you safe in these places.”

Tom stopped chewing.

“You know, that didn’t actually occur to me.” Then he shrugged again. “But I don’t think I could be arsed going through the process. So, you have a mission report?” 

“I do.” 

The eternal soldier squared his shoulders and straightened his spine: Tom didn’t believe these were conscious actions.

“Proceed.”

“Elyse wouldn’t tell me what she’s working on, but understands it could be dangerous and is, quote: ‘taking precautions’.” Tad lifted an eyebrow, an invitation for Tom to elaborate, which was declined by way of silence. “She told me to tell you that: ‘the game is afoot’.”

Tom remained silent, stirred his coffee.

“You know what she’s doing?” Tad prodded.

“I have a horrible suspicion.” Tom shook his head. “And no, I still can’t say anything.” 

“My unit’s shipping out again in three weeks, but until then I can keep making a nuisance of myself and checking in with her.”

“I don’t know that Elyse will thank you for that.” He gave his former colleague a shrewd look. “But that’s not an entirely selfless offer, is it?”

Tad didn’t have the sort of complexion that leant itself to blushing easily, but the tips of his ears were a bit pink.

“Would it be a problem? If I asked her out? She was yours not that long ago.”

“She was never ‘mine’,” Tom retorted mildly. “and if she heard you saying that you’d have no chance with her at all.”

“Modern girls, eh?” Tad affected the disapproving, slightly incredulous expression common to chauvinists disguised as concerned citizens.

“Oh shut up, you dinosaur, you’re even beginning to piss me off!” Tom chuckled. “If you can at least pretend to be enlightened you’ll do much better. I’m not giving you my blessing to go after her, that’d be like transferring ownership, so no. If Elyse wants anything to do with you she will and if she doesn’t there’s nothing you or I, can or should, do about it.”

“I’m on my own then?” Tad was playfully mournful.

“Completely. You’ll have to rely solely on your wit and charm.” Tom smirked. “Good luck with that.”

“You’re an arsehole, Hiddleston.” Tad laughed, then smacked the table lightly with his fingers. “Oh! Before I forget! Your sister’s staying with her.”

“Yes?” Tom was relieved, and pleased, but kept his expression to ‘mildly interested’. 

“Yeah.” Tad frowned. “Did you know Felicity was having a tough time with your dad? I know you don’t get on with him.”

“She’d mentioned a few things.” Tom said. “What happened?”

“An extraction mission. Felicity waited ‘til your dad was out then she threw some essentials in to suitcases – only _two_ suitcases, mind! – and Elyse spirited her away in the dead of the afternoon.” Tad was trying not to smirk. “It was very exciting by all accounts.”

“Don’t mock the civilians, Tad.” Tom was also trying not to smirk. “Just because your idea of ‘excitement’ is rappelling out of a ‘Cat while under enemy fire.” He became serious. “She’s okay though?”

“Yep, doing fine, apparently. Started volunteering at an animal shelter.”

“Something she’s always wanted to do.” Tom grinned. “Give her my love when you see her, please, and ask her to get in contact with Andi, my solicitor. Elyse should have her details.”

“Anticipating problems?”

“Mm, only financial at this stage.”

“What? Aren’t you lot in the top twenty richest families in Britain?”

“That’s my father.” Tom pointed out. “I have an independent income but Felicity won’t for another couple of years. I’ll authorise my solicitor to make funds available.”

In fact he’d already organised that with Andi shortly after Flisty’s last visit. Stuck in here he could be no material help to his sister but had wanted to be able to quickly make good on his offer of money if it was needed.

“So, shipping out?” Tom changed the subject. “Same old?”

“Same old.” Tad confirmed with a rueful grin.

“Gosh, I wish I was going with you.”

“No you don’t. Liar.” Tad waved his hand in front of his nose. “Is that...? Is that burning pants I can smell?”

Tom laughed.

“Wow, your sophisticated sense of humour is sure to win Elyse over.” He lifted his coffee cup in salute. “Good hunting.”

~~~oOo~~~

“Oh, Chris, no.”

Indira – foster-sister, mentor and best friend – sat across the table from him in the Visits Hall, concern evident in her wide brown eyes and radiating through the numbing fog of the limiter from where she was holding his hands.

“It wasn’t deliberate.” Chris mumbled, looking down. “I didn’t even realise until yesterday.”

He’d come back from the wash room, Tom had been doing his stretches in the small space between their beds.

“ _Dave_ was looking for you, again.” Tom said, face tight as he concentrated on controlling a sideways bend. “Why don’t you fuck him? He clearly wants you to.”

“Uh...” 

_Dave, Dave_... Oh, the young guy with the nice eyes who’d carted Jack’s stuff away. 

“I’m surprised you hadn’t noticed.” Tom was now cautiously bending the other way. “He’s always watching you. If he was a cat in season he’d be presenting to you, arse in the air, making that appalling noise.” 

The realisation hit with a solid thump to Chris’ sternum. He hadn’t noticed Dave because his attention was on... Tom. _Shit_. 

“What?” Tom was frowning at him. His forehead was beaded with sweat and his eyelashes were clumped together. There were a few pale freckles across the bridge of his nose that Chris wanted to touch. “You look like your dog’s just died.”

Tom lifted his hand, automatically glancing through the open door of their cell, checking to see if they were being observed. They weren’t. Chris watched Tom’s long fingers move towards the bare skin of his forearm. He felt the inevitability of it when those fingers made contact.

 _Shit_.

:: what’s the matter

:: I have to make a phone call

Chris twisted away from him, the blood pounding in his ears, and hurried out of the cell.

Because of his unique circumstances Chris didn’t have to book phone calls ahead of time, or line up to use the public phones available to the other prisoners. All he had to do was front up to the guard post and make the request, he would then be escorted across to admin and the call put through for him. 

He waited now, under the slightly paranoid gaze of a guard, to see if his caller was available. 

“Here you go.” The receptionist passed over a cordless handset.

Chris nodded his thanks then took a breath.

“Hey, Indie.” 

“Chris! Hi, what’s up?”

“Won’t keep you long.” She’d probably interrupted a meeting to take his call. “I know you’re not scheduled to come in to see me until next week, but could you come in earlier? If possible?”

“I’ll see what I can do. Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Chris was aware of the scrutiny of the guard and receptionist, and the definite possibility of the call being recorded. “It’s nothing urgent, not life-threatening.” 

He gave a half-hearted chuckle and Indira hummed, the small lilt of sound that meant she was thinking. 

“Okay, I have to go but I’ll see you as soon as I can, yeah? Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.”

Chris exhaled and handed the phone back, feeling a bit better, a bit lighter; it wasn’t just his problem now. Indie would know what to do.

And now here she was, sitting across from him, worried and exasperated.

“I’m so sorry, Chris, we should’ve anticipated this.”

 _He_ should’ve anticipated it, yes. He’d kept Indira up to date with his re-emerging abilities, all off the record, the pair of them excited with the secret like the children they’d been, but he shouldn’t have allowed the excitement to let him forget the risks. 

Chris had gone from a life of open and frequent affection to physical disconnection: he’d gone from close, constant and comforting psionic contact to absolute psionic isolation. Tom had unwittingly given him scraps of both things so it was hardly surprising that Chris, with his dependent personality, had reached out, but he hadn’t realised what was happening – _he hadn’t realised_ – because he was so muted. 

“Why,” Indira sighed. “... must you keep bonding with unsuitable men?” 

“It’s only the second...” Chris flinched. “Fourth time.”

:: have you had sex with him?

Chris blushed and shook his head.

:: good DO NOT do that “We have to get you away from him.”

“No.”

“Be sensible, Chris.”

“ _No_.” He ground his teeth together. “The only place I can go from here is the Institute and I can’t. _I can’t_. They’ll take...” He gripped her fingers. :: I can’t.

“I know. I understand.” Indie soothed, slipping in to her role as advisor. “But Hiddleston isn’t psionic, he can’t reciprocate. Continued contact with him will only hurt you.” She studied her foster brother’s unhappy face and sighed. “All right we won’t pull you out of here just yet but you have to keep your distance from him and hopefully it won’t take too long for the bond to fade - What?”

Chris had flinched again.

“I moved in to his cell.”

:: WHAT when did this happen why didn’t tell me 

:: it was an impulse I didn’t think. He’d just been in this fight he was alone

:: you wanted to protect him

It was so simple when Indie laid it out like that. Of course he’d wanted to protect Tom, not just because he was his only source of any sort of comfort but because he was alone and hurt and defenceless. Chris being who he was couldn’t walk past that. 

Chris nodded, ashamed but not really, perversely glad despite this misery of embarrassment to lay his sins out for her. She looked like she wanted to bang her head – or his – on the table. 

“All my grey hairs come from you, you realise?”

Chris dared to grin, just a little. Indie was twenty-six, two years younger than him, and there was not – had never been – any trace of grey in her lustrous black hair. 

“I don’t like this. Hiddleston’s a manipulative bastard.” Her eyes narrowed as Chris shifted in his chair. “You’re going to tell me he’s not?”

“No, but I haven’t – “

“I read up on him when I found out he was in here.” Indie’s voice was flat. “You remember how he avoided psi-questioning when he was arrested? You want to know how he did that?”

Chris instinctively _didn’t_ want to hear anything bad about Tom, but as that was an irrational response prompted by this stupid bond, he kept his mouth shut. Besides, he _was_ curious, and Indira had access to classified material that he never would. 

“His grandfather is a peer, and his father has political influence due to his obscene wealth. Hiddleston shamelessly used his family connections to circumvent the legal process. He didn’t care that people were dead because of him he just shat over them and their families to save himself. He doesn’t use threats to get what he want, he uses counterfeit friendship, and flattery, and sex too, there’s evidence, to manipulate people. What do you think he’d do if he found out about your attachment to him? It’s a gift. He didn’t even have to work for it.”

Indira leant forward, intense.

“You’re vulnerable to him, Chris.”

“I’m not weak.” He scowled. “Or stupid.”

“No, but you are at a considerable disadvantage, and I’m worried about you.”

Chris frowned.

“Look, I’m not disputing what you’ve read about him, and yes he is an entitled, arrogant prick but there’s more going on, I’m sure. I’ve spent time with him, I’ve seen some of his interactions. He’s not a complete sociopath, he looks after people.”

“What? He’s not all bad?” Indie scoffed. “He’s a shit but it’s not his fault? Listen to yourself, you’re already making excuses for him. You’re already sounding like an abuse victim!”

Her eyes opened wide with dismay as she realised what she’d said.

:: nonono oh my brother I’m sorry sorry that was unforgiveable

Tears pricked at Chris’ eyes and his lips trembled as a rank wave of old, old shame and self-disgust churned up through him.

:: ChrisChrisChris 

He gulped in a breath and nodded, gripping tightly to Indie’s fingers.

:: I’m fine I’m fine twenty years of counselling isn’t going to be wiped out so easily:: He glowered at her from beneath his eyebrows. :: I understand it probably wasn’t intentional but that was low

:: sorrysorrysorrysososorry

He sensed his foster-sister’s genuine contrition and relaxed the hunch of his shoulders.

:: I’m not helpless

:: I know I know but your taste in men is shit my little love.

:: yes but have you seen his arse

It was a weak attempt at humour but they both seized on it as the circuit breaker it was meant to be. 

Indie’s eyes flicked to the left. After a couple of seconds she smiled: it wasn’t a particularly nice smile.

“Perdy’s going to come and see you.”

Chris’ face fell.

“Does _she_ have to?”

He knew he was whining, but once you got past the very thin veneer of the neurobiologist looking like someone’s unremarkable fat aunt, Perdita was terrifying.

“Yes, she does.”Indie was firm. “You’re due for a check up anyway. I’m going to leave any decision about _what to do with you_ until I have her assessment.” 

Indira hadn’t wanted to leave him after he’d been knocked off-kilter like that; in the past she’d gladly served as his emotional anchor, but that wasn’t possible here. She couldn’t stay nor could she give him remote psionic support, the limiter blocked that, but Chris assured her he would all right - fine, no problem, truly – and promised he’d think about what she’d said. She only came up to his armpits but her stranglingly tight hug was imbued with a ferocious love and strength. 

Still somewhat shaky but gamely holding it together, Chris slunk back to the cell, letting out a subdued sigh of relief to find himself alone. He’d been dreading seeing Tom but it looked like he hadn’t returned from his appointment with the physio. Chris had been avoiding his cell mate since working out what he’d done to himself - and that had been a creative challenge given they were locked up together in a very small room for almost half the day – but he’d have to talk to him at some point.

Chris crawled on to his bed and lay facing the wall. He was going to go to sleep, he’d sleep through the afternoon and dinner time if necessary, and when he woke up his equilibrium would be restored and everything would be fine. And then he’d be able to think constructively about the tsunami of crap that would be heading his way when Indie found out what else he’d done to protect Tom.

~~~oOo~~~

Noah was pleased with the speed of Tom’s recovery. Tom smiled, and said nothing about the help he was being given this time.

Chris didn’t just hover over him like a huge, blond Maremma, keeping watch for the wolves, he’d also been supervising his weight training, making sure he didn’t overdo it but still pushing him just that little bit more when he needed it. Along with that he made sure Tom didn’t skimp on the pain meds, something that’d tended to happen when he wasn’t feeling safe, and then there were the massages. 

They’d started the first night back in his cell with his new, uninvited roomie. It was after lock-up but before lights out and Tom had been aching, a bone deep dragging ache that had him wincing every time he moved. He was miserable with discomfort and irritated, frankly, with the spiralling loss of control over his life the psycher’s presence implied. It didn’t matter that Chris had been respectful of Tom’s space, the fact that he was there at all, without Tom’s consent was aggravating. 

Chris had been silently watching him fidget as he tried to get comfortable, a slight frown on his broad face.

“Would you like a massage?” 

He’d held up his hands, palms out, at Tom’s sharp look. 

“I promise I’m good at it, I won’t hurt you.”

Tom had wanted to snap at him about boundaries, and expecting trust, and offering so much he made himself a target. But what he’d said was:

“... Why?”

“Because it will help you.” Chris had shrugged, looking nonchalant, but his hands, clasped between his knees, had tightened, and those ridiculously blue eyes had glanced away. Tom thought he might have had an inkling of the psycher’s true intentions.

“And you want it.” He’d challenged him.

“I... what?” Chris was wary now, but he didn’t try and move away when Tom settled his fingertips on the back of his hand.

:: you want this

Of course he did; that naked longing on his face was painful. Tom pulled his hand back.

“All right.” 

Chris had blinked a couple of times, swallowed heavily.

“Will you be okay lying on your front?” He’d asked, the huskiness clearing from his voice as he spoke. “Or you can sit up if that’s going to be too awkward.”

“I can lie down. Shirt on or off?”

“Whatever you’re comfortable with. But it’s easier with your shirt off.”

Tom had stripped off the loose, old t-shirt with only the barest hesitation. A spirit of devilment made him consider shucking the track suit pants that served as his pyjama bottoms, just to see the look on the psycher’s face but common sense, or the sense of self-preservation, made him keep them on. Hemsworth’s intentions appeared to be benign but he was still an unknown quantity and Tom wasn’t in the best state to defend himself if things went south. 

“I don’t have any oil.” Chris had said. “Are you okay with talc?”

“Sure.” 

“I’m assuming you’ve got night-time meds? Better take them now before we start.” 

Tom was of a mind to say no, but he was so sore and fed up... He took his tablet then manoeuvred himself to lie down, resting his forehead on his folded arms.

The scent of the cheap talcum powder reminded him, weirdly, of boarding school but then the delicious weight of warm hands settled over his shoulders and he stopped thinking. He might have moaned. 

Chris _was_ good at this, gentling his touch over the scars along Tom’s damaged spine. He didn’t speak, or :: speak, except to check every now and again that Tom wasn’t experiencing any discomfort. 

Tom was most definitely not experiencing any discomfort, except perhaps for the completely tolerable discomfort of his half-hard cock trapped between his thighs and the bed. 

:: do you still want to fuck me

The hands stilled on his lower back, thumbs resting against the bottom of his ribs. 

:: is that a trick question?

There was warmth and humour in the psycher’s tone: he stroked the palms of his hands outwards over Tom’s ribcage, not quite light enough to tickle.

:: just checking the state of play

The lights went out and Tom was acutely aware of the restrained power in the man beside him. 

“That’s enough, thank you.” He murmured, and Chris immediately moved away.

“Better?”

“Much. Thanks.”

Tom had slept quite well that night.

From then on Chris had offered a massage most evenings, the exception being yesterday, after Tom had mentioned Dave. Chris had barely looked at him since and kept well out of touch range. 

Whatever had gone wrong Tom felt he needed to fix it, because he _liked_ Chris, beyond his usefulness as a bodyguard or a masseur. He could talk to him, as an equal, and Tom has sorely missed that, more than he’d missed physical intimacy he suspected. 

He frowned when he got back to the cell and saw Chris lying down facing the wall.

“Chris.”

He didn’t question how he knew he wasn’t asleep, just that he wasn’t. The psycher twitched, then glanced back over his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Tom asked.

The blond sighed, deeply, then uncurled to sit up on his bed. Tom gestured to the space beside him. 

“May I sit?”

Chris nodded, gaze fixed on the floor. 

Tom sat, a hands width of space between them, then began angling his leg towards Chris - slowly, allowing the psycher to move away if he wanted to - until their knees were pressed together.

:: is this all right

He wasn’t sure he’d be able to reach him through their clothes. Neither had Chris, going by his startled expression, then his face closed off, but not before Tom spotted anguish there. 

:: can you tell me what’s wrong

Chris shook his head, looking down again.

:: can I do anything to help

Another head shake and Tom repressed a huff of irritation: this wasn’t getting them anywhere. 

:: do you still want to fuck me

Chris snapped around to face him, so sharply Tom almost recoiled, unsure what the psycher was going to do. 

:: is that a trick question?

Tom laughed aloud. 

:: you’re an idiot 

Chris’ small smile was rueful. He slumped forward, bringing his forehead to rest on Tom’s shoulder with a gentle thump.

:: you have no idea


	12. Chapter 12

“Are you going to do anything about that boy?”

“Dave? Probably not.”

It was after lights out and Chris had been on the edge of sleep, just at that nice, floaty point, when Tom’s voice had dragged him back. There was a rustle of movement from the other bed and - because it was never actually dark in here with the strong lights outside – he could see that his cell mate was lying on his back, face turned up to the ceiling. He could also see that Tom’s arm was over the side of the bed, not hanging down but stretched towards him. 

The gap between them was small enough that Chris only needed to shift a little and he could reach him. There was the possibility of course that a guard might look in through the door’s peephole but chances were they could’ve previously seen something that made two prisoners holding hands seem innocuous by comparison. 

Chris reached out and hooked their fingers together: he acknowledged then tried to ignore the happy thump in his chest as the bond settled in to place. 

:: why not :: Tom was asking. :: he’s attractive nice arse he doesn’t smell

:: I’m selective in my partners. I don’t hop in the sack with just anyone no matter how attractive they are

:: should I feel flattered

Chris couldn’t quite see Tom’s smug smirk, but it was there in his tone. 

:: yes. You should feel flattered

:: you might want to have a word with him soon some people can be very touchy about rejection especially if they’ve made a fool of themselves last thing I need is my bodyguard involved in a fight

:: you think Dave’s making a fool of himself?

:: he had no subtly to begin with trying to attract your attention the posturing and calf-eyes have been getting worse the longer you seem oblivious

:: I hadn’t noticed

Tom made a soft noise of disbelief.

:: you really have no idea I thought you were just pretending to be thick

:: oi! But no, I really hadn’t noticed

:: don’t know how you could have missed it others have noticed

:: others? 

:: there’s a lot of tension around that boy he is giving out very specific signals it won’t be long before someone takes him up on it with or without his consent

:: shit

:: DISSUADE HIM you don’t want to be responsible for what happens to him do it soon very soon I cannot stress this enough

:: It’s not that I don’t believe you -

:: I have spent a lot of my life watching for trouble I am very good at reading situations and there is one developing around Dave

:: I’ll talk to him tomorrow

Tom breathed out heavily through his nose.

:: good

And then he changed the topic so deliberately Chris could feel the wrench as he shifted mental gears.

:: all right I know you want to fuck me and I do feel very flattered by that by the way how do you feel about receiving

It took a moment for him to catch up.

:: ... nah. Doesn’t do anything for me

:: have you had sex with women

:: what is this?:: Chris kept it light. :: is this like a job interview? you want my sexual CV? do I need to complete a selection criteria? 

Tom was laughing, not out loud but Chris could feel the tremors of it through his hand.

:: I’m not as picky as you but I still have standards about who goes near my dick

Chris was laughing now, too, also with that near-silent vibration.

:: wow you are a class act, Hiddleston 

:: good looks money and yes class I have it all

:: and pride and arrogance and a superiority complex. Are you really going to okay with me sticking my dick in you?

Tom’s chuckle was low and quiet and downright filthy.

:: one you’re equating being penetrated with being subordinate I expected better of you frankly and two it’s entirely possible to top from the bottom

The laugh burst out of Chris before he could stop it and he slapped his free hand over his mouth to muffle the sound, before the neighbours complained, or the guards came to investigate.

:: I’m never ever going to be the boss, am I?

:: nope get used to the idea petal

:: fine, whatever. Just don’t be an arsehole about it

:: I promise nothing

Tom squeezed his fingers then let go. 

“Good night, petal.” 

“’night, dickhead.”

Tom’s soft snigger trailed off in to silence. Chris listened as his cell mate’s breathing evened out and became deeper. 

He was... disconcerted by Tom’s statement about ‘watching for trouble’. He’d worked with kids who’d had to develop that sort of siege mentality in self-defence - shit, he’d been one of those kids, until he’d learnt to trust that he could rely on others for help – and he was now wondering about some aspects of Tom’s behaviour. He was still a dickhead, but... nurture or nature? And had that even been a true statement to begin with? 

_Stop_. 

Indie’s words about Tom using friendship to manipulate had bitten deeper than he cared to admit, lodging under his skin like a persistent irritation, to the extent he was now beginning to question anything Tom said, even if it felt true. What was he going to do? Was he going to trust his, perhaps, compromised intuition or assume Tom was always, always and only angling for the best advantage for himself?

For his own peace of mind, and sanity, Chris knew the sensible thing to do would be to keep his distance and try to remain objective, but... bond aside, he’d already emotionally tagged Tom as a friend and it felt wrong to keep him at arm’s length, especially if he needed help, especially if Chris _could_ help. 

Chris shut his eyes and consciously matched his own respiration to Tom’s. Time to sleep; he wasn’t going to be able to do much more tonight than think himself in circles.

~~~oOo~~~

The following morning after breakfast, and after a significant look from Tom when the boy wandered by them, swinging his hips, Chris went looking for Dave. He found him lurking in the Rec area, and now that he was paying attention, Chris realised just how young he was. Late teens perhaps? Just old enough to go to an adult prison?

Dave watched him approach, a sly smile on his face which deepened in to dimples when Chris leaned down to him.

“Can I have a word?” 

“Sure.” 

He followed him willingly, though his smile dropped a little when he realised Chris wasn’t taking him somewhere more private, just to a quieter spot by the windows. 

The young man looked up at him, still smiling, hands in the pockets of his uniform grey trousers, shoulders raised and slightly hunched. He gave the impression of being both adorably shy and defensive.

“Dave, I’m not gonna have sex with you.”

The smile immediately dropped and he stepped back, hands coming out of his pockets.

“Why? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing at all.” Chris said with all seriousness. “You’re gorgeous.”

“You don’t like guys, is that it?” Dave pressed, voice low and urgent. “That’s okay, I can be as much of a girl as you want.”

“No, no, that’s not it at all.” Chris waved him down. “You're fine as you are but... It is possible to think someone’s attractive and still not want to have sex with them.” He shrugged at the boy’s sceptical look. “Mind you, I say that now but I haven’t been inside that long. Five years time I might’ve changed my tune.”

“Bit late for me then.” Dave was sullen. “I’m out in six months.”

“Great!” Chris shifted from serious to enthusiastic in a practised heartbeat. ”Got any plans?”

“Oh, uh...” It caught the boy off guard. “My case worker’s making noises about vocational training.”

“Excellent idea. What sort?”

“Auto mechanic.” Dave was relaxing, his shoulders had come down and the smile was creeping back. “I’m good with motors.”

“You in here for nicking cars?” Chris hazarded a guess.

“Yeah.” Dave looked pleased. “Like I said, good with motors.”

“Take the training, man, there’s enough villains in the world, you gotta use your powers for good!”

Dave snickered but he was grinning now. He glanced up and around.

“The Captain’s watching you.” He said with a smirk.

Chris didn’t look over.

“I think he’s probably making sure you don’t try and make an assault on my virtue.” He winked and Dave sniggered again. 

“He just wants to keep you for himself.” The look he gave him was shrewd. “Is that why you’re not interested in me? You’ve had a better offer?”

“Not a _better_ offer.” Chris replied without thinking then grimaced as he realised what he’d said, and what that implied.

Dave’s laugh was raucous but not unkind.

“It’s cool, mate, I’m just teasin’.” He straightened up. “All right, so no fucking, but if you need anything else, yeah?”

“Thanks, and the same for you, okay?”

Dave nodded, then caught Chris’ elbow as he turned to leave. Chris could barely _sense_ him; his connection to Tom had clearly always been stronger.

“Thanks for stopping me make more of a tit of myself.” Dave murmured. 

“Anytime.” Chris replied with a grin. “Watch yourself...”

 

“Sorted?” Tom asked when he caught up with him.

“Yeah, I think so.” 

Chris was hoping he wouldn’t be asked for details; he wasn’t sure he wanted Tom to know what his lack of mouth-brain filter might’ve given away this time.

“Good. Better keep a quiet eye on him for a little while, make sure he’s not making more trouble for himself.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Chris threw him a cheesy grin and cheesier salute.

“That’s the spirit.”

Tom’s inflection was sarcastic but the quirk of humour in his lips made Chris smile. 

~~~oOo~~~

Tom had been called in to an interview with the governor. He sat at ease in the moderately comfortable chair in front of the big man’s big desk, hands folded loosely over his stomach. His walking stick was hooked over the armrest and strictly speaking he could do without it now but he’d been reluctant to hand it over and Noah hadn’t pushed. 

A guard stood behind him by the door. The governor’s office had large windows looking down over the well-maintained garden beds at the visitors’ entrance. There were framed awards and degrees on the walls; a few photos amongst the important looking sets of books on the shelves; a couple of healthy pot plants . All very normal and expected.

“Okay, Tom, this is just an informal chat.” 

The Governor, Rex Billingson, was older than him, with yellowing, close-cropped hair and a weathered face. The deep lines around his mouth, and the nicotine stains on his fingers indicated that cigarettes were a factor in the texture of his skin rather than a life in which the ‘outdoors’ had a significant part. 

Billingson was favouring him with the patented managerial, chummy-but-still-in-charge look employed by people who weren’t all that consequential to start with. You were coached in using this expression in business school, Tom knew.

“Nothing official yet, about the incident where you were injured. You know which one I’m talking about?”

“Yes, sir.” 

Tom refrained from rolling his eyes; a large proportion of the prisoner population _were_ stupid enough to need some sort of prompt to aid their recall of events. 

“What do you remember?”

“Not that much, I’m afraid.” Tom frowned, as if searching his memory. The truth was, of course, that he’d had his story planned out for a while. “I remember going to the wash room – “

“With Pasquale and Turner?”

“Yes.” Tom nodded. “I was getting undressed when Boyd and Williams came in. They attacked; I was punched, in the stomach, I think...? And fell backwards, hitting my head on the shower partition. That’s all I remember.”

“Are you sure?” Tom shrugged at the question. “Why did they attack? Was there an argument?”

“I don’t know why they attacked. I don’t remember an argument.”

“They were seen going in to your and Pasquale’s cell previously. Why was that?”

“They believed, wrongly, that I had drugs.”

“How did they get that idea?”

“I don’t know, sir.”

The governor didn’t look pleased but Tom knew he had nothing on him. When the guards had raided his and Rowdy’s cells they’d confiscated a lot of fairly innocuous contraband, extra food, cigarettes etc, but none of it was drugs. That stash was still secure and undiscovered. 

“Well then, what I want to know, Tom, is if you’ve been advised to take action against the prison?”

“Implicate the prison in my injuries, sir?” Tom opened his eyes wide. “It hasn’t been mentioned specifically by my lawyers, but as I see it there was probably nothing more the prison could have been expected to do to foresee the event, and my medical treatment afterwards was adequate.”

It was hardly a ringing endorsement, and the governor knew it, but that was the best he was going to get.

He stood up: Tom followed suit.

“Thank you for coming in, Tom.” Billingson spoke genially to him like he was a regular person, not someone subject to his whims. That was another ‘management’ technique: this guy was clearly up to date on the syllabus. Tom kept his sarcastic thoughts to himself. “If there’s an inquiry you’ll be notified if your testimony is needed.”

“Yes, sir, happy to help.”

As Tom was escorted out through the admin area, Lisa, Jack’s paramour and Tom’s main source of leaked information here, looked up. She was pale and her lips twisted as their gazes met. Tom inclined his head slightly and she looked back down. Tom had the uncomfortable thought that maybe he’d underestimated the strength of Jack and Lisa’s attachment. To be honest it hadn’t occurred to him to look beyond the use he could make of it, but she was clearly still grieving. Was this something else he needed to fix? He had no idea.

~~~oOo~~~

Perdita Almay’s hair was cut short so it wouldn’t distract her, and she usually chose her clothes with the same aim. The plain top and trousers she wore today were grey and brown, hanging comfortably off her heavy body. She really didn’t like to have to fuss with something that wasn’t important.

Perdy twitched her chin irritably at the nurse sitting in the corner of the examination room.

“I asked for privacy but it was declined in this instance.”

The nurse – Josie, Chris thought her name was – shrugged.

“It’s prison policy to have an authorised staff member present during non-standard consultations.”

Perdita ignored her, focusing her attention on Chris. It wasn’t a comfortable sensation. She probably wasn’t prising out all his secrets but that’s what it felt like. 

She pointed at the chair in the centre of the room.

“Sit.”

Indira had tried to explain the ‘Perdy Effect’ to him, that people’s discomfort with her came from the instinctive knowledge that she wasn’t looking at you and seeing an individual human being with thoughts and feelings. No, what she was seeing was a mass of neural pathways, the mapping of which held far more interest to her than mere feelings. 

And Chris was fairly certain the neurobiologist still hadn’t forgiven him for the loss of her research opportunities when he’d killed Meerkins. 

“You’re not going to see or hear anything of any relevance to you.” This was directed at Josie. “Anything I find that is relevant to the medical care you carry out here I will put in a report. That is all that will be available to you from this session.”

“Understood.”

Josie was doing an admirable job keeping her face straight and her attitude professional. 

Perdy stood behind Chris and placed her fingertips against his temples. She brushed against the limiter and he jerked, hating anyone touching that, including himself.

:: stay still. let’s see what’s going on... 

The neurobiologist officially worked for the Psionic Institute, the government regulatory body that oversaw the psionics in the population, but her first loyalty was to the Wings Foundation. Her psionic abilities had been too weak to attract the attention of the Institute at first, and it had been the Foundation that had taken on the responsibility of training her. More importantly though, the Foundation had funded her education, allowing her to discover and develop her genius for neural studies. When the Institute had realised how useful she was in this respect they’d been quick enough to take her back. Perdy didn’t see the irony in this, she was just happy to have funding. 

Chris endured the invasion, gritting his teeth as her presence flowed through him like ice. He concentrated on his breathing. 

:: the progress on reworking your pathways around the limiter is unremarkable. no faster or slower than noted in other subjects 

She pressed deeper.

:: I see the bond

:: don’t touch it!

She’d done something that jangled along Chris’ nerves.

:: I was led to believe this was one sided

:: ...what?

Perdita did again whatever it was she’d done before, making Chris’ nerve endings scrape. He could distantly feel his hands curling up in to tight fists in his lap.

:: it’s definitely anchored to something

Chris was suddenly short of breath.

:: he’s... is he psionic?

:: don’t get your hopes up:: Perdy was dismissive. :: it’s latent, and vestigial at best

:: but something’s there?

:: Hiddleston had a psionic half-sister, didn’t he? :: Perdy was thinking aloud to herself at this point. :: this certainly supports the current theory on familial, genetic latencies

:: what are you talking about?

Perdy refocused on him with an effort.

:: the main theory of psionic occurrence has been that it’s appearance in a population was statistically random, but recent research is beginning to show a trend towards more latencies appearing in blood lines that have already produced a psionic than those that haven’t. This is why compulsory psionic testing of children would be invaluable in tracking these trends 

:: I...

:: Hiddleston has a younger full-sister doesn’t he? I’d love to bring her in for assessment

:: doubt very much that’ll happen

:: but the genetic link there is the father

:: Perdy...

:: I’ll set the students to tracing the bloodline back and see what turns up

:: Perdy...

:: it’s going to be extremely interesting investigating the branches – 

:: Perdita!

:: ... _what_?

:: are we done?

:: yes yes we’re finished you’re perfectly healthy

Suddenly she was gone from inside his head and was striding out of the room, without acknowledging either Chris or Josie.

“Well...” Said the nurse, staring after her.

“Sorry.” Chris said. “Professor Almay is...”

“Yeah.” Josie chuckled. “Are you all right?”

She was watching Chris shake his head and rub at his eyes.

“Bit of a headache. I’ll be fine in a little while.”

“Stay here...”

The nurse returned in a moment with a glass of water and two paracetamol.

“Will these help?”

Chris reached for them.

“Thank you, yes.”

“Take your time. There’s a guard waiting to take you back when you’re ready.” Josie flipped open his medical chart. “I know Professor Almay said there wouldn’t be anything of any relevance to us mere medical professionals, but I need to note _something_ down.”

Chris smiled lopsidedly.

“Chase it up with the Institute, they’ll make sure you get a report, but in the meantime you can say that Professor Almay found nothing wrong.” 

“’... and Nurse Carter administered two 500mg paracetamol at the close of the session for headache.’” Josie finished up the entry. “Done. You’re all right to go?”

Chris nodded, the headache was already receding along with the remnants of Perdy's icy contact.

 

He had to walk at the guard’s pace which - while he might have had the mad urge to sprint back to Tom and fling himself at him – actually gave him a little time to sort through the tumult in his mind. He desperately wanted to ask Tom if he’d felt anything in the past twenty minutes, desperately wanted to know if the discomfort of Perdy's tweaking had flowed both ways. But asking the question would only complicate things: it was much simpler for Tom to not know about the bond, or being latent. Much simpler.

Tom was sitting on his bed, reading. He looked up from his book and smiled when Chris came in.

“How did it go?”

Chris impulsively moved to stand close to him - he had his back to the door, shielding them from casual view – and cupped his cheek in his hand.

Tom went perfectly still.

:: everything okay

:: everything’s fine

They continued to stare at each other, Tom with some puzzlement but no alarm.

:: you’re being weird

:: sorry

But Chris didn’t step back, or take his hand away from Tom’s face. He stroked his thumb over Tom’s thin lips, which parted slightly at his touch, and was abruptly, acutely aware of how much he yearned for the deep, wordless communication that psionics could have with each other. Mind to mind. Perfect love. Perfect trust. 

:: what’s wrong?

He must’ve given something away with his expression because Tom couldn’t have felt the flash of grief that’d just stabbed through him. 

He was a lifer while Tom only had five, six years at most of his sentence to go. The separation didn’t bear thinking about _now_ , it was only going to get worse the longer they were in contact.

Chris knew what he had to do to protect himself. He had to break the bond, the sooner the better.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (reading back over the earlier chapters, I think it might be worthwhile doing some editing and tidying up once I've finished with this.)

Chris gently rotated the tips of his thumbs along either side of Tom’s spine between his shoulder blades.

:: Have you had psionic contact before? Before me, I mean

Tom, his cheek resting on his folded arms, smirked but didn’t open his eyes.

:: yes I’m sorry darling but you weren’t the first

Chris couldn’t help huffing a laugh, which broadened his cell mate’s lazy grin.

:: how much contact? you were pretty relaxed about it all that first time

:: I did react

He’d shielded, Christ remembered, but not immediately.

:: and where’d you learn to shield? 

:: why do you want to know

:: just curious

Chris wanted to know because he was torturing himself, the way someone in a new relationship, someone with masochistic tendencies perhaps, might want to find out about their partner’s previous relationships.

:: I had an older half-sister who was psionic but she had already been fitted with a limiter before I met her I’m not sure that counts

:: why was she limited? 

:: psychologically maladapted

The quirk of Tom’s eyebrow indicated an inquiry.

:: it happens. We try not to use limiters except as a last resort

:: poor Claire I liked her always wondered if my father being virulently anti-psi had anything to do with her diagnosis

Chris shuddered.

:: shit. That’s a horrible thought 

:: horrible man anyway and then there was the mandatory psionic conditioning for officer cadets at Sandhurst I’m pretty sure that was designed to weed out the ones who couldn’t handle it

:: identify the phobics. Good strategy

:: phobics?

:: secret psi business

:: oh you have to tell me now 

Tom had opened his eyes.

:: do I?

:: absolutely I’ve just told you something that was technically covered by the official secrets act, you have to reciprocate in kind come on give

:: I call bullshit on that but anyway:: Chris was kneading Tom’s shoulders now, could feel him relax further under his fingers.

:: it’s not a big deal, honestly, but not all non-psionic brains are the same. You know about nulls, the blank spots in the noise that we can’t contact:: Tom made a vague noise of assent. :: phobics are the ones that have an extremely negative reaction to contact

:: lucky then I’m neither of those 

Chris grinned.

:: nah, I reckon you’re an easy 

Tom laughed aloud.

:: a what is that as bad as it sounds 

Chris swept the tips of his fingers firmly down Tom’s spine, finishing just above his tail bone.

:: if you equal being easily contactable psionically with having sex with anyone that asks, and thinking that’s a bad thing, then possibly yes 

:: touché 

It came out as a drowsy sort of mental mumble and Chris smiled. 

:: I think we’re done. How does that feel?

:: fantastic thank you always fantastic 

Chris very briefly brushed his palm over a firm buttock; Tom’s skin tantalisingly warm through the tracksuit material. There was a soft sigh, and a minute shifting of his hips in response but it was clear he was well on the way to sleep. 

Chris pushed himself away from temptation and across to his own bed. He lay on his side watching Tom wake enough to turn over from where he was lying on his front, but not enough to bother putting his t-shirt back on. Chris acknowledged his arousal but didn’t do anything about it: he was torturing himself with this, as well. 

He had two – only two – sensible things to do to make life easier for himself, break the bond and not have sex with Tom. Easy.

Hah.

He already knew he wasn’t going to be sensible about the bond, had more or less resigned himself to leaving that alone until something forced his hand because it was just too painful to think about severing. And the sex? Yes, oh god, yes, he _wanted_ , he could freely admit that to himself now, but... sex was always complicated. He’d tried in the past, really he had, to indulge in the no-strings variety, but it’d never worked. At best it’d been pleasant but forgettable and at worst... at worst it felt like he was using his partner, or being used, and he’d walked away from those encounters feeling hollow, or guilty, or just ill. He’d learnt there had to be an emotional connection for him or it was pointless.

And here was his current predicament. He’d developed the emotional connection but wasn’t confident that it was reciprocated. Tom had a much more casual attitude to sex than he did and Chris didn’t want to be just a fling, or a means to an end. So, in the interests of self preservation, he’d do nothing, until he could think of something, but it didn't stop him thinking about it...

~~~oOo~~~

Flisty sat opposite Tom in the Visits Hall, looking very pleased with herself.

“I drove myself here, you know.”

“You have your license?” Tom was calculating the amount of time she’d been away from their father. She couldn’t have got it that quickly, surely?

“Not yet, but I’m learning, finally!”

“Ah, so you drove here with someone?”

“Well, yes, Captain Pedantic. But _I_ did the driving...!”

He’d been so pleased to see her, sweeping her up in to a hug that made his back twinge, but it was worth it.

“That’s very exciting.” Tom was grinning at her now. 

“Oh, shut up, you clown, it _is_ very exciting! Do you know how long I’ve wanted to learn to drive?”

“I do know, and I’m sorry.” Tom held her hand across the table. “I didn’t mean to mock.”

“You absolutely did, you shit.” Flisty sniffed. “But I forgive you. Do you want to know who I was driving with?”

“Elyse...?” It was the most logical choice.

“Yes! She’s very patient. She’s sitting in the car at the moment, working.” His sister gave him a small smile. “She says to say ‘hi’.”

“Say ‘hi’ back for me.”

Tom would’ve liked to see Elyse, but he could still sort’ve not blame her for not wanting to see him.

“What’s she working on?” He asked as casually as he could.

“Pfft. She won’t tell me, but I know she’s been in contact with a couple of reporters. I recognised their names on the letters she asked me to send. Actual paper letters, with stamps. Snail mail!”

Was this one of Elyse’s ‘precautions’? Old school communication, not subject to hacking, or electronic tracing? 

“Now, about Tad.” Flisty gave him a level look. “Do you trust him?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Has he told you what his intentions are towards Elyse?”

_Ah_. 

“I’m fairly certain if he had any ‘intentions’ towards her he’d be upfront about them.”

“Yeah, he has been, but I want to know if he’s okay. Can she trust him?”

“Tad is completely straight, in all senses of the word. Yes, she can trust him.”

“Oh good! ’cause I like him, and Elyse likes him, but... he’s a friend of yours...”

Flisty was trying to put it as delicately as possible but her meaning was clear. Was Tad like him? Charming, self-centred, a bit of a cad...?

“I’m wounded.” 

And he was a bit, despite the ironic smile and the hand clutched melodramatically over his heart. It surprised Tom that he was bothered by his sister’s assessment of him. He wasn’t duplicitous, at least he never tried to pretend to be nice when he wasn’t, and he’d never been horrible to her, beyond the expected big brother shit. He was not their father.

“Sorry.” She wrinkled her nose at him in an unapologetic smile. “Oh, guess what else I’m going to do! I’m going to be a vet!”

Immediately, a host of precautions and obstacles sprang to Tom’s mind but he kept them firmly behind an encouraging grin, letting his little sister vocalise her enthusiasm. It’d been a long time since he’d seen her so engaged about anything.

“Saraid, one of the vets at the shelter, took me out with her on a farm visit.” She opened her eyes wide. “Cows, Tom, _cows_. They’re so beautiful! And sheep! I’m going to need to do some bridging courses to get up to speed on the sciences but Saraid said she’d help me and I’ve looked at the material and I think I can manage it!”

“Let me know if you need extra money for study.” He managed to get in while she paused to draw breath. Flisty beamed at him.

“You are the best brother ever.”

Tom was slightly mollified.

“I have my moments...”

~~~oOo~~~

Chris’ pleasant surprise at being told he had visitors had faded in to unease when he was escorted not to the Visits Hall, but to but one of the private interview rooms.

Of course he was very happy to see Karl, and Indie, but the pair of them in this setting didn’t bode well. He hugged them both, commented on Karl’s missing beard. 

“Anika convinced me to do it.” The wiry black man stroked the smooth skin on his chin. “She said I kept getting food stuck in there.”

Karl was one of the Foundation’s lawyers, a mid-range telepath, married to one of Indie’s non-psionic cousins. He’d been a friend and mentor to Chris since he was a stroppy teenager.

They sat at the table; Chris on one side, facing the door, Indie and Karl across from him, facing the small, high window. Indie took an envelope out of her jacket pocket and slid it towards Chris.

“It’s from Curran.”

Chris’ hand froze where he’d been reaching for it, his fingers instinctively curling away from the paper.

“Do you...” He cleared his throat, feeling an all too familiar rush of adrenalin churn through his body. “Do you know what it’s about?”

“I do.” Indie’s voice was full of a tightly controlled anger. “I haven’t read the actual letter but yes, I know what it’s about.” 

She wrapped her fingers around his wrist.

:: you don’t have to open it. You can ignore it

Chris’ smile was sickly.

:: no, I really can’t. It’ll gnaw at me forever

He picked up the envelope, fingers trembling as he was watched with sympathy by his friends.

It wasn’t a long letter, one page of rounded, unsophisticated hand-writing. He read it through twice, just to make sure, then pushed it back towards Indira.

“No.”

She breathed out, relaxing.

“I’ll pass that on.”

“Would you mind if we stayed here for a bit, if you don’t have to leave straight away?”

“We can stay for as long as you like.” Both Indie and Karl took hold of his hands, squeezing his fingers tightly.

:: I’m not ready to go back yet

:: take all the time you need, my brother

~~~oOo~~~

Tom knew they were standing in the doorway but he didn’t bother looking up from his book. He could hear the shuffling of feet as it slowly sunk in that they were going to have to make the first move.

“Oi, _Captain_.”

“Mm?”

Tom looked up then, at Rattray and three equally unsavoury individuals lurking with intent. They were doing their best to appear intimidating. There were no obvious weapons, but perhaps they didn’t think they needed them.

“It’s time you and I had a little chat about the way things operate in here.”

“Really?” Tom didn’t need to inject much in the way of withering scorn to make Rattray scowl. 

“Yeah, you’re going to cut me in for 60%, no 70% of your take.”

“Am I?” Tom drawled. “Or what?”

The four of them amped up the intimidation vibes, or tried to, flexing shoulders, lowering chins.

“Or you’ll be dead.”

“Why not kill me straight away. Then it can all be yours, 100%.” Tom sneered. “Oh that’s right, because without me running the show you’d have to start from scratch and you don’t have the intelligence to know where to even begin organising your clothes of a morning, let alone anything with the slightest complexity. _Idiot_.” 

Rattray took a step forward, flexing his fists.

“Your daddy’s not here to protect you. You like taking it up the arse, Hiddleston?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Tom smirked. “Surely you don’t subscribe to the archaic societal construct of masculinity.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, can we just belt him?” One of Rattray’s chums whined.

“Yeah! His ‘daddy’s’ not here – “ said another: they’d clearly latched on to that as the insult du jour. “ - we can do what we want.”

“Go ahead.” Tom was dismissive. “Four against one is about what I’d expect from such _heroes_. Do your damndest, and then what do you think is going to happen?” He laughed harshly at the looks on their faces. “ _You people_. You will only ever be the underclass because you don’t _think_ , you don’t _plan_ , you don’t consider consequences.”

Like in this instance of not having set a look-out while they were confronting him: they had no warning of Chris' return. He'd come up silently behind them. 

“You are sub-morons, not even fit to serve.” He looked over their heads, literally, as Chris towered above them, and grinned. “Oh, _hi_.” 

It was almost comical the way his would-be attackers jumped. 

“ _Fuck off_.”

Chris’ growl was genuinely alarming, clawing its way up from somewhere deep in his body. Rattray and company fled, with no attempt at parting shots.

“Good timing, thanks.” Tom snorted. “And just a heads-up. I’m not sure who they were trying to insult but they referred to you as my ‘daddy’.” He paused and scanned Chris’ oddly neutral face. “How was your visit?”

“Good, thanks.” 

It emphatically hadn’t been, Tom determined, but he kept his silence. He watched Chris pick up his own book and begin reading. The bell rang for dinner shortly after.

Dave had started sitting with them at meals – and this time his acne’d friend Beckers was with him - as had Old Arnold and surprisingly, Chris’ previous cell mate, Dorney, though he kept to the outskirts.

Tom surreptitiously watched them all while they ate. Chris appeared to be interacting as normal; no one else seemed to notice that something was off with him, but something was definitely off. Tom kept quiet.

Chris’ striving for normalcy – and it was an effort, Tom could tell – continued in to the evening, during their hour or so of ‘association’ in the rec area before it was time for lock-in, then lights out.

 

Tom lay on his side facing Chris’ bed, frowning at the psycher’s back. He was absolutely silent but he wasn’t asleep and his distress was tugging at Tom like a heartbeat. Tom had always made it a point to be strategically absent when someone was vulnerable, he wasn’t good at empathy, but he couldn’t even pretend this time that everything was fine. Plus there was nowhere for him to retreat to.

He got up, standing between their beds. 

“Chris?” No response. Tom chewed his lip, then decided.

The psycher startled when Tom stretched out behind him, on top of the bed clothes.

:: what are you doing?

:: offering comfort I think this isn’t my forte is it all right I can go back to my own bed we can pretend it never happened

There was a beat of silence, then:

:: no. Stay.

Tom wasn’t feeling sure enough of himself to put an arm over Chris’ waist so he tucked his hands up in front of his chest and snuggled in, soaking up the warmth of that big body. This was very nice, if a bit precarious with the narrowness of the bed. Chris edged forward a bit, making more room for him. Tom pressed himself forward again.

:: I know you’re not all right but you don’t have to tell me anything

Chris was silent for so long Tom thought he might have taken him up on his offer.

:: when I was very young:: Chris began, just as Tom was beginning to contemplate going to sleep. :: when I lived with my parents, my empathy was the first thing to manifest. I wasn’t able to project my own emotions but I could physically feel other peoples’. Anger was the worst, even when it wasn’t directed at me, it was like hot, sharp scratches all over my skin, in my head. My parents were angry a lot of the time. I had no way to defend myself from it so I learnt to counter the bad feelings, either by being extra extra careful to be good, or to try and cheer people up by being funny. It worked sometimes. I was a very obliging child.

He sighed deeply.

:: when I was about seven, a friend of my dad’s came to live with us. He was horrible, even angrier than my parents, and physically violent. He was the greater threat, so naturally I spent more time trying to accommodate him. I developed a very deep, very unhealthy attachment to him. He became the most important thing in my life, more than my parents, more than my own safety.

Tom stayed silent, dreading where this was going. He rested his forehead against the back of Chris’ neck.

:: it didn’t take him long to work out what was happening, and then he’d push me to see how far I’d go to make him happy. ‘get me some fags’ he’d say, so I would, nicking them from my parents to start with but progressing to shop-lifting. Same for alcohol, food, porn. I stole so much for him, and I felt sick all the time doing it, but I had to do it.

Tom uncurled a hand and rested it over Chris’ shoulder.

:: it got worse. He would... :: Chris was trembling. :: I don’t want to go in to details

::no don’t you don't have to is this why you attacked Meerkins

:: it’s why I lost it so badly and killed him. There was a very deep well of trauma to draw on

:: shit I’m sorry I’m sorry

:: my parents didn’t notice anything was wrong but my teacher did and got the cops to intervene. They took me away from my parents, from him, put me in to care, and eventually I got fostered to a Foundation family. The stupid thing was that I knew, I knew that he had no real love or concern for me, but I fought so hard to get back to him. It took a long time to break that bond. Years.

:: what's happened

:: and now, today, I get a letter from him, saying he’s going to be out on parole soon and he’d like to see me

:: the fuck why

:: as part of _his_ healing process. His counsellor has advised him to make amends so he can move forward. He said... :: and Chris was shaking now. ::he said, he’d understand it if I didn’t want to see him but I would be denying him the opportunity to let go of his mistakes fuckhimfuckhimfuckhim

:: Chrischris

Tom couldn’t say it was all right because it clearly wasn’t, but his free hand did go over his waist and he hugged him, overwhelmed by feelings he was beginning to suspect weren’t his own.

:: sorry

:: no don’t apologise

:: I want to kill him

:: no one would blame you but I could arrange to bribe the judge if necessary if it came to trial

Chris’ laugh was short and soggy, but it was a laugh.

:: I’d appreciate that, thanks

:: wouldn’t offer that to just anybody just so you know

:: wow I feel so special

Tom chuckled in to Chris’ neck then found himself brushing a light kiss over his warm skin before he realised what he was doing. The psycher inhaled deeply, relaxing.

:: would you mind staying with me? There’s not much room

Chris’ vulnerability was kind of scary, that he was trusting Tom with it, more so.

:: can I get under the covers my feet are freezing

:: sure. You might want to grab your pillow as well

They sorted themselves out as comfortably as could be managed by two large men on a smaller than single bed. Tom tentatively rested his hand again on Chris’ waist but the psycher grabbed it, hauling it over to hold against his flat stomach.

Tom fell asleep comforted, but not entirely sure if that was his feelings or Chris’.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh hey, this is actually nearing completion!
> 
> [edit: ' _and he had the mad urge to cling to **89Chris**_...' bloody cat, walking on the keyboard while I was posting. I thought I'd caught all his 'edits'. Thank you, Alestrel!]

Tom woke up over-warm and sweaty, still pressed up against Chris’ back. In the few seconds it took for him to understand just how okay he was with this, he realised that Chris was also awake. 

:: have you been lying there waiting for me to wake up

:: I didn’t want to disturb you

Tom affectionately nuzzled the base of the psycher’s neck, making him shiver.

:: twit you didn’t have to

:: seemed polite. But I really have to piss now

Tom gingerly manoeuvred himself out of Chris’ way - there wasn’t much margin for error on the narrow mattress, one wrong move and he’d be flat on the floor – and went to sit on his own bed. 

The anxiety took him completely by surprise. He could feel the space between them like a physical entity and he had the mad urge to cling to Chris, to not let the distance win. The impulse passed a scant moment later and he took a deep breath. _The fuck was that?_ He glanced over at Chris, now happily voiding his bladder in their shared toilet, but the psycher hadn’t seemed to notice anything. 

Chris flopped back in to bed and stretched out. Tom, still thrumming with an echo of that odd anguish, bridged the gap between them by extending a leg and resting his foot against the psycher’s flank. Chris cupped his hand over Tom’s toes and for a little while it was peaceful. 

:: how are you

The psycher sighed, though really it was more of a prolonged exhale. 

:: I’m all right. thanks for last night

:: did it help

:: yeah:: he smirked and squeezed Tom’s toes. :: what do I owe you?

There was still a bleakness about him, but he was making an attempt at levity. 

:: you stopped me getting beaten up so I guess we’re even

Chris’ eyes drifted closed, then he frowned.

:: a lot of yesterday evening is a fuzzy blank but did you say someone called me your ‘daddy’?

Tom snorted out loud.

:: Rattray and chums seemed to think it would provoke me or something

Chris was chuckling, though it sounded forced.

:: you don’t want a daddy?

:: not a dynamic I find appealing

:: what do you find appealing?

Tom _knew_ Chris wasn’t all right, but he was bantering, making an effort for normalcy, and Tom decided then he wasn’t going to make it difficult for him.

:: right now what is really appealing is a breakfast with actual bacon not that ersatz cardboard shit 

On cue, their door unlocked and the guards could be heard outside making their wake-up rounds. There was about ten minutes before the bell rang for breakfast. Tom, reluctantly, removed his foot from Chris’ warm body and stood up.

“It’s a pity, I think, that we’re not allowed to dine in our pyjamas.” He accompanied his over the top gravitas with a sombre expression.

“Yes, this is a terrible hotel.” Chris looked up at him, lips curving in to a smile that was almost genuine. “I won’t be recommending it to anyone.”

Tom chuckled and turned away before his wavering control could create complications neither of them needed.

~~~oOo~~~

In the days following his rejection of _bastard_ Curran’s _bastard_ request, once he’d got the adrenalin and simmering panic under control, Chris had become aware of a change in Tom. It wasn’t a big change, one he might not have even noticed if he hadn’t spent so much time previously studying the man, but it was there.

Tom was being... solicitous of him. Was that the right word? He was being gentle, while pretending that he wasn’t, and protective in a way that initially had Chris’ temper twanging, until he understood that it wasn’t because Tom thought he was weak. 

Being considered weak had been a red flag for Chris since he was a child, something that counselling had helped him realise was just him projecting _his_ opinion of _himself_ on to others. He’d had to learn to not jump to conclusions, to not immediately get defensive if he thought someone was being over protective. He’d had to learn to trust himself.

No, Tom was looking out for him but he wasn’t disempowering him by putting himself as a barrier between the big bad world and Chris’ delicate self. He wasn’t actively shielding him, but he was... watchful. He was alert to Chris’ moods, and how he responded to anyone who approached him. He was prepared to step in if needed, that was clear, but only if needed. Chris found that having that sort of non-smothering backup made it easier to regain his equilibrium because he wasn’t fighting against that, too.

There was one thing though... Chris’d been aware, even before he’d spilled his guts after the shock of Curran’s letter, that Tom was keeping him away from his business. ‘The Captain’ had been getting back in to the swing of it for a couple of weeks now, but he’d kept Chris at arm’s length. He didn’t object to him being there as his very obvious muscle, but even that was more of a deterrent than any real threat of violence. Chris had wondered at first if it was because Tom didn’t trust him, to keep his mouth shut or to not sell him out to his enemies, but now he was beginning to think it probably wasn’t more any complicated than Tom wanting to keep him out of trouble. Why? Who knew...

And speaking of complicated.

Tom had made it pretty obvious he was willing to share Chris’ bed again but Chris was torn. With Tom there he’d slept deeply, easily the best, most restful sleep he’d had in months in spite of the shock he’d had. Part of him craved the comfort offered, wanted to grasp it, and Tom, and never let go, but with one barrier down, one line crossed, he knew he wasn’t strong enough to resist for long the proverbial slippery slope. That would be disastrous for him, making it even harder when he inevitably had to break free.

~~~oOo~~~

Indie came to see him two days after delivering Curran’s letter. Chris was relieved to meet up with her in the Visits Hall and not one of the private rooms. This was just a regular visit, then.

She hugged him, prolonged and tight.

:: how are you?

He kissed the top of her head, burying his nose in her almond scented hair.

:: okay. Getting better

Indie gently disengaged herself and they took their seats. 

“I’m here because Perdy’s going to make a recommendation that you should know about before it happens.”

“Oh?” Chris was wary: so much for just a regular visit.

“Based on her examination of you, she’s going to suggest you come off the tranquilizers.”

Chris snapped his mouth shut and reached instinctively across the table for his sister’s hands.

:: what? why?

:: she believes you don’t need them any more

:: will I be safe without them? this is not a good environment to take chances in. if something goes wrong – 

Indie squeezed his fingers.

:: you don’t have to agree to it, and there’s always the possibility the prison medics aren’t going to agree either

Chris frowned.

:: is she recommending a complete stop, or a gradual withdrawal?

:: she wants you to go cold turkey but we’ve argued her down to a gradual cessation, plus intensive therapy

Chris relaxed a bit. He let go of Indie’s hands, remembering they were in public and possibly being watched. 

“That sounds... safer. Why is she making the rec, though?”

“Perdy’s going to claim that this will make you less of a risk, ultimately, because you’ll be better able to control yourself.”

“’Claim’?” He shook his head. “What’s her real reason?”

Indie scrubbed her hands over her face and sighed.

“She hasn’t said anything else but if I had a suspicious nature I’d say it might be because she wants to see what will happen.”

Chris scowled.

“She can’t play games with my life. Or with anyone else’s.”

“We’ve been making that point to her, forcefully, but she’s being particularly stubborn, and as I said, you don’t have to agree to anything.” Indie quirked a fine, black eyebrow and looked him squarely in the eyes. “In our discussions she’s also mentioned Hiddleston’s status. You kept that to yourself.”

“I...” Chris could feel the guilty blush spreading up his neck. “It never seemed like a good time to bring it up.”

Indie touched the back of his hand.

:: it’s not going to change anything. he’s still not going to be able to reciprocate

:: I know, I know 

:: my brother please don’t... please break with him. you’re going to get hurt. he’s going to hurt you. maybe not deliberately but it’s going to happen

He didn’t bother challenging her on how she knew he hadn’t already broken the bond.

:: you’re prescient now? 

He smiled to take the sting out of it and Indie rolled her eyes.

:: not prescient, just presupposing, going on your previous history

Chris’ mouth tightened. 

:: I don’t want to argue. I’m not going to argue. I would like you to trust me, just once

Indie’s eyes opened wide in shock.

:: I do trust you!

:: you don’t. you question my judgement all the time

:: but you get hurt making the same mistakes over and over

:: they’re my mistakes to make. I know you want to protect me and I love you for it but please, my sister, I don’t need protecting

Indie was blinking back tears and Chris felt terrible, but he held firm to his resolve.

:: all right I’ll try to keep my words of wisdom to myself:: she smiled but it was watery. :: I reserve the right to say I told you so when – if – things go wrong

:: you’ll do that anyway

Indie giggled quietly at his rueful tone and pulled her hand back.

“I can’t help worrying about you, though.”

“You’ve been looking out for me since the moment we first met.“ Chris said gently. “I do try not to give you reason to worry.” 

“Yes, thank you for that.” She wiped her nose with a napkin. “I have more than enough to worry about already.”

Chris smiled at her, the person he probably loved most in the world.

“So when is Perdy going to put forward her suggestion?”

“Monday.” It was Friday now.

“If I can I’d like to read up on the process, possible consequences, before I make a decision.”

“I’ll ask Perdy to put something together for you.” Indie pulled a face. “No, I’ll get Richard to do that. It’s less likely to be filled with impenetrable jargon.”

“Ta.” Chris scrutinized her face: before his empathy had been shut down he’d generally been pretty good at knowing what was going on with his sister, even when he was preoccupied with his own dramas. “Are you okay?”

Indie was a born diplomat and very good at masking her feelings, but something wasn’t right, he realised now. 

“There may be a spot of bother brewing. Potentially.” She sighed. “I can’t say anything yet.” 

“You’ll let me know if I need to start worrying?” 

“Of course.” Indie grinned lopsidedly. “I promise I won’t leave you out of this one...”

~~~oOo~~~

“Chris, would you mind...?”

The psycher smiled amiably and took up his accustomed position outside Arthur’s cell, leaving Tom and the elderly convict to talk in private.

Tom sat on the opposite bed, miraculously still unoccupied despite the apparent overcrowding in the prison system, and leant forwards, lowering his voice. 

“I need your help.”

Arthur nodded solemnly.

“Any way I can, young Thomas.”

“Thank you. I need a 2IC. You did me a good service before, pointing me to Rowdy, and Jack.” 

“What about...?” Arthur jerked his chin towards Chris, just visible lounging against the wall outside.

“Not a good fit.”

Arthur’s pale and sparse eyebrows lifted.

“Too soft?”

“Not hard _enough_.” Tom corrected him, trying not to be annoyed. “So, if you can think of anyone suitable... Just don’t mention Rattray.” 

“Fuck, no. Man’s a cunt. And an idiot. This place would be in flames within a week if he took over!”

Tom chuckled: that was something they could agree on.

“There’ll be a finder’s fee for you, of course, and... this is in confidence, understand? I’m thinking long term here. If it works out and I think they’re good enough, I’ll offer to hand over to them. I’ll pass on all my contacts.”

“All of ‘em?” Arthur’s gaze sharpened: he was asking about the guards Tom controlled, not just his people on the outside. 

“ All of them.” Tom confirmed. “I’ll retain a portion of the proceeds, naturally, and stay on in a consultative role.”

“Leave it with me.” Arthur rubbed his chin. “Can I ask why you wanna step back? You’re very good at this stuff.”

Tom sighed, and scrubbed his fingers through his hair; it still wasn’t quite long enough to be styled. 

“Again, in confidence.” He waited for Arthur to nod. “I’m tired of it.”

He’d approached prison with the same attitude that he’d approached every other institution in his life. He’d work within the rules – outside of them whenever he could get away with it – but always with an eye to looking out for himself. He’d garner respect, authority, use violence only as a last resort, and even then it would be delegated. He would work to get to the top of the heap because from there he’d only have to worry about those below him. 

And now he was bone weary of the struggle to stay on top. At first he’d assumed it was an after effect of the attack he’d survived, a similar sort of apathy had affected him after his initial spinal injury, but this had been simmering in the back of his mind for longer than that. 

“What are you going to do with yerself, if you step back?”

“I haven’t worked that out yet.” Tom grinned. “Maybe avail myself of the many improving courses on offer. Crochet, perhaps.”

Arthur barked a laugh that turned in to a wheeze.

“Well, you’ve only got a few more years before you’re out, I suppose. You could use that time to plan your triumphant return to society, eh?” He winked. 

Tom laughed.

“Yes, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have me back.”

“You could marry a rich bint.” Arthur was warming to the topic now. “Become one of them socialites. Travel all over the world! Go to all the best parties and get your mug in the papers!”

_To what end?_ Tom was thinking, but he smiled. 

“Yes, all of that.”

“Go in to politics!”

“Oh, fuck no!” Tom chuckled. “I’d be the worst politician!”

“I’d vote for ya.” 

“Thank you, I appreciate that, but I think there might be some law somewhere about people with criminal convictions not being allowed to run the country.” Tom stood up and held out his hand for Arthur to shake. “Thanks for the chat. See you at dinner?”

“Right you are, _Prime Minister_.” Arthur winked again.

“Oh, god, don’t start.” Tom shook his head, but he was smiling as he left the cell.

~~~oOo~~~

Tom was in a quandary.

He was fairly certain that Chris hadn’t been all talk when he said he wanted to fuck him, but he’d made no move in that direction despite Tom’s decreasingly subtle hints. Tom was reluctant to push it, given recent revelations, but short of actually laying hands on Chris’ dick, he wasn’t sure what else he could do to get his point across. He’d never forced anyone in to sex, though yes, there had been times he’d been persistent in talking someone around, but honestly... What was the psycher waiting for? Tom was good to go, and after some initial, private, reservations he was even prepared to bottom. If Tom had been Chris he would’ve nailed him long before now! 

But that was the point, wasn’t it? Chris wasn’t him. Chris was a decent human being with issues of his own and Tom was just going to have to be patient. 

Maybe. He was _tired_ of being patient, once he’d made a decision he liked to act on it as soon as possible. Maybe he needed to find a way - a more direct yet non-invasive way - to communicate to Chris that yes, he was still interested, for fucks’ sake so get on with it...! 

Chris had seemed preoccupied the past few days, especially after his sister’s visit, so Tom hadn’t minded so much when he wasn’t offered one of his cell mate’s semi-regular massages. He missed them though, and missed the sense of security that came with Chris’ warm hands on his body. Perhaps...?

Tom waited until lights out then sprang in to action with his cunning plan.

“So.” He said. “Any chance of a massage?”

“I’ve just got comfortable.” Chris responded from his bed. “Is your back sore?”

“No more than usual. I just want a massage.”

Tom waited: he was prepared to let it go tonight and try again tomorrow, but Chris was getting up.

“You don’t have to.” Tom offered insincerely.

“I’m already outta bed.” Chris at least sounded amused and not pissed off. He sat down on the edge of Tom’s bed. “Come on then.”

“Actually...” 

Tom had stripped off his t-shirt, but he lay down now on his back instead of his front. He hooked his thumbs in to the waist band of his track suit pants and tugged them down to mid-thigh. 

“... what are you doing?” 

Tom rested a hand on the psycher’s knee: he thought he heard Chris swallow.

:: you don’t have to do anything or even watch if you don’t want to but I’d like you to stay

:: what are you doing?:: Chris asked again.

:: I’m having a wank what does it look like

:: Tom – 

:: stay or go it’s up to you

Chris stayed, motionless on the edge of the bed, watching as Tom licked his palm then reached down and began stroking himself. 

Even with it not being truly dark in the cell, it wasn’t light enough either for Tom to clearly make out Chris’ expression. He could feel the tension in him, though, trembling ever so slightly through the solid thigh under his palm. He kept his eyes open and locked on the pale circle of Chris’ face; his fingers curled, digging in to Chris’ leg as he came closer.

He climaxed as soundlessly as he always did, with a barely indrawn breath, and holy hells that had felt _good_. He relaxed back in to the mattress then lifted his hand to contemplate the mess he’d made.

:: wait there

Chris’ tone was soft. He reached the short distance over to the small table bolted to the wall between their beds and grabbed a few tissues. He didn’t say anything as he cleaned up first Tom’s hand, then the sticky patch of semen on his stomach. He threw the wadded up tissues in the general direction of their bin.

:: there you go

Tom smiled sleepily, content.

:: thank you

Chris’ middle finger traced a slow circle around the tattoo above his heart.

:: blood type?

Tom nodded. Chris then trailed his fingers across his chest, just catching the nipple which tightened in response. He stroked down the list of letters and numbers on Tom’s ribs, his touch barely heavy enough not to tickle. 

:: and these?

:: results from first year of Uni

And then, very lightly, Chris’ fingertips grazed downwards to the colourful tattoo inside Tom’s hip. 

:: and this?

:: a reminder to not lose control 

The psycher’s hand was close enough to Tom’s penis he could swear he could feel the heat of his skin. The slightest shift of his hips and they’d be touching.

:: you don’t like that. losing control

:: I don’t 

Tom reached down to where Chris’ fingertips were playing over the fictional crest inked in to his skin. He grabbed his hand - and while doing so maybe accidentally knocked Chris’ fingers against his cock – and twined their fingers together.

:: I am ready any time you are and if you don’t want to that is fine too

Chris sighed deeply.

:: you make things very difficult 

:: it’s a talent

:: it surely is:: Chris brushed a kiss over the back of Tom’s knuckles. :: g’night

:: goodnight

Tom turned on to his side, shoving at his pillow about until it was comfortable. He closed his eyes and smiled wryly to himself: he’d been about as direct as he could be, now it was up to Chris.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recap of previous chapter: Tom decides to take matters in to his own hand - so to speak - to let Chris know that sex is definitely still an option...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! :)  
> Sorry for the delay in updating - this chapter took _so long_ to take shape. It's probably a bit wobbly still in places, please let me know if you catch any inconsistencies.
> 
> Oh hey look, we've reached 3k views now, neat!

In the cold light of dawn Tom wasn’t completely optimistic that his... display last night wasn’t going to send Chris running, but when he rolled over it was to see that the psycher was already awake and watching him with an expression that fell somewhere between fond and predatory.

Tom smiled, feeling the weight of that gaze settle in his core.

Chris untucked his arm from beneath the blanket and reached out across the gap between their beds. Tom met him halfway and they laced their fingers together.

:: do you always come that quietly?:: Chris asked. 

:: years of dormitory living you learn to keep quiet unless you want to be mocked mercilessly

Tom was looking Chris straight in the eye and smirking, the tip of his tongue just touching his teeth, because he _knew_ the psycher was thinking about making him... vocalise. 

:: what about you:: he countered. :: I’ve never heard a peep out of you

Chris shrugged.

:: haven’t had much inclination since... well, everything

Tom found that hard to believe, that someone could just... _not_ for any length of time. He’d always found an orgasm – self-induced or otherwise – to be comforting, a way of grounding himself.

:: and before?

The psycher ducked his head and broke eye contact. 

:: um

Tom waggled his eyebrows.

:: oh I see

:: no no it wasn’t... okay, look:: The psycher was getting flustered, which Tom, naturally, found amusing. :: standards and psis, we have the same... but there’s just more levels involved for us. it’s kinda hard to explain

:: what’s to explain sex noises are noticeable or they are not

:: it’s not that simple for us:: Chris was looking at him again and yes, he was definitely blushing, the red of his cheeks intensifying the blue of his eyes. :: the physical sounds are one thing but there’s also potential head-noises that can be overheard 

:: even more opportunities for humiliation

:: shit yes and with empaths there’s also a chance of emotions and physical sensations... leaking. it’s one thing having your parents tell you they can hear you wanking, but something else when they say they can ‘hear’ you. and then your little sister says something... stop laughing! this is a serious issue for us!:: But Chris was also laughing.

:: so what do you do?

:: you learn to lock it down to yourself, or lock it between you and your partner but until you’ve got the hang of that... really you _can_ stop laughing now:: But Tom couldn’t help it, Chris’ combined smirk and pout was priceless. :: I’d like to change the topic please 

:: no no I’m not done you didn’t answer my question:: Tom prodded. 

:: oh for fucks sake:: Chris rolled over on to his back and glared at the ceiling, but he didn’t let go of Tom’s hand. :: yes, all right yes. in the past there were instances where everybody, and not just psis, within the immediate area knew exactly what I was doing. satisfied?

:: eminently thank you

Chris glanced at Tom, unable to hold back a lop-sided grin. 

:: you are such a shit

Tom squeezed his fingers.

:: I know and I’d apologize but it wouldn’t be sincere...

~~~oOo~~~

Chris had been gone for most of the afternoon, for a ‘medical thing’ he said, and Tom had taken the opportunity to wander down to speak with Old Arthur.

As promised, Arthur had had a think about Tom’s request for a new lieutenant and was able to give him a couple of names. He stressed though that he hadn’t had a chance to properly suss the candidates out, and while they looked good on the surface – both long-termers, both intelligent, both with reputations for fair dealing – he didn’t know them personally, not like he’d known Rowdy. 

Tom thanked him for his input and assured him he was in no hurry, that he was perfectly happy for him to take as much time as he needed to be sure of his recommendations. 

As Tom headed back to his cell, Dave, Chris’ young would-be fuck buddy, fell in to step beside him.

“Hey, Captain.” The boy was doing a bad job of looking casual. The way he kept glancing back over his shoulder was a bit of a giveaway. “Okay if I walk you back?”

“Sure.” Tom eyed him. “What’s up?”

“Oh. Um. Nothing.”

Tom quirked an eyebrow and Dave grimaced.

“Someone’s giving me shit and I thought that maybe, if they saw me hangin’ with you...”

“They’d think twice?” Tom finished for him. “Who is it?”

“Bassani. Fat little Italian _malaka_.”

“Yeah, I know him.” Italian by way of Basildon, but more relevant perhaps was that he was one of Rattray’s circle. “I’m not convinced though that ‘hangin’ with me is going to do you any favours in this instance.”

Dave’s engaging face fell. 

“Thing is, he’s tight with Beckers, my cell-mate.”

“You don’t feel safe there?”

Dave shook his head.

“We used to be good but he’s got mean. I dunno know why. I’m sure he’s going to try and drop me in the shit somehow.”

Tom slowed down: Chris had mentioned the boy only had a few months of his sentence to go, the last thing he needed was any sort of trouble that could jeopardise his release. 

“Do you want to switch cells?” He waited for Dave’s nod. “Come with me.”

It took some juggling – negotiating cell-swaps, including shifting someone suitable in with Old Arthur – but the end result was that Dave would be bunking with Dorney. 

The tall black man wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about it, though to be fair he never was enthusiastic about anything much, but he accepted Tom’s direction and agreed to help Dave pick up his gear before lock-in that night. Tom left instructions with Dorney to let one of his ‘friendlies’, Edmundson, know who’d swapped where when the guard was next on duty. Any official paperwork would be handled smoothly and quietly.

“I owe you, Captain.”

The boy’s big, hazel eyes were shining with gratitude. He really was quite a darling. Tom ignored the flutter of interest stirring his cock. 

“Yes.” His smile was genial and unthreatening. “You certainly do.”

~~~oOo~~~

When Chris returned to their cell an hour before dinner he looked haggard, and thoughtful. He tossed a bulging A4 envelope on to the small table before slumping down on his bed.

“How'd it go?”

Chris rubbed at his eyes. 

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“Start at the very beginning.” Tom said, straight-faced. “It’s a very good place to start.”

Chris’ laugh was suspiciously close to a giggle, but he leant back, resting against the wall.

“There’s a possibility I might be coming off the meds.”

Tom’s eyebrows shot up.

“Really? Is that...”

“Safe?” Chris shrugged. “Probably? Maybe? Yes?”

“Are they going to agree to that?” Tom asked.

“Dunno. There’s already been some concerned tutting.”

“Is this just a suggestion? Or an order? They couldn’t go directly against a medical order, could they? Unless they can show sufficient evidence that you’re too dangerous without them?”

“It’s not an order, but it is being strongly recommended, for my ‘continued good health’.” Chris sighed. “Ultimately though it’s my decision.”

“What are the benefits? There’d have to be some, yes?”

Chris rubbed his eyes again.

“I’ll have better control of my body. I’ll be able to sense when something’s not right.”

“You can’t do that now?”

“Not consistently. The meds create a barrier between my mind and my body. They interrupt the feedback loop. I have to be careful I don’t overdo it in the gym, for instance, ‘cause I may not realise I’ve damaged something.”

“I hadn’t realised they were that invasive.” 

“It sucks.” Chris shrugged. “But I can compensate.”

Tom remembered something else Chris had told him earlier on in their association, about the effects of the tranquilisers.

“They block your body’s response to your emotions too, don’t they?”

“Yep, that's their primary function. More specifically they block my body’s potential overreaction to my emotions. That’s something that’s much harder to control, once it’s kicked in.”

He indicated the envelope.

“There’s a pile of information, articles and stuff, in there. I’m going to read through it but... I’ve pretty much decided I’m not going to agree to it.”

“But why?” Tom frowned. “The benefits to you – “

“Are not enough to outweigh what could happen if something goes wrong. Besides...” Chris rubbed the back of his neck: Tom’s fingertips itched. “I get the feeling I’m being used as a guinea pig and I will not put people at risk just to satisfy someone’s curiosity.”

Tom mulled that over. 

“What if you were somewhere you weren’t a risk?”

“What?” Chris gave him a sharp look.

“You could go in to isolation?”

“No. I’m not going to leave... I’m not going to do that.”

“But – “ 

“ _No_.” Chris growled. “I’m not one hundred percent sure this won’t be a monumental clusterfuck, so, no, I’m not going to agree to it.” 

“All right, all right.” Tom held up his hands, palms out. “I’m just offering suggestions.”

“I noticed.” Chris’ lips quirked. “I’m sorry I snapped. This is a bit... it’s putting me on edge. I don’t like being manipulated for ulterior motives.”

“You think that’s what’s happening?”

“I’m suspicious, but that could just be paranoia.”

“Paranoia’s a survival trait.” Tom pointed out.

“Maybe.” Chris looked down at his hands twisted together in his lap. He glanced up as Tom’s foot nudged his.

:: would you mind if I read through the literature as well 

:: go ahead. it’ll be a relief to have someone to discuss it with actually. wasn’t looking forward to wading through all that on my own

~~~oOo~~~

Tom was increasingly suspicious of his emotional reactions whenever Chris was around, specifically, that they weren’t his emotions he was experiencing. Never one to leap in without due preparation, if it could at all be helped, Tom decided to test his theory before saying anything.

Chris was hunched over their small table, frowning in concentration as he worked his way through another one of the medical articles. Two days on from the meeting about his meds and he’d managed to get through half the pile. 

Tom made sure they weren’t in physical contact.

“Do you like puppies?” 

The psycher looked up and grinned. 

“Sure. Who doesn’t?”

“They are adorable aren’t they?” Tom mused. “Those squirmy little bodies. Those full bellies. The slobbery kisses.”

“Yep! Love ‘em.” 

And there it was, the warm surge of positive emotion.

“What about... spiders?”

“Spiders?” Chris raised an eyebrow: the warmth was fading.

“Big hairy spiders, scuttling across the ceiling towards you.”

“That’s not a comforting thought.”

“What about hot chocolate? So warm and delicious on a cold day.”

“... What are you doing?”

Tom shifted so their feet could rest against each other underneath the table. 

:: I think you might be projecting I’ve suspected for a while that I might be getting something from you:: Tom scrutinised him. :: and now you’re anxious 

It wasn’t just the _feel_ of it that informed Tom: Chris’ breathing had kicked up a notch and the pen in his hand was in danger of being snapped in half. 

:: how long have you been noticing... ?

:: since the night we slept together the thing is I’m concerned that if you’re projecting it might not just be me that’s picking it up we can test the theory of course see what sort of range you’ve got 

Tom frowned: Chris was definitely more anxious now and he was finding it hard to keep it separate from himself.

:: there’s things you can do isn’t there mental exercises retrain yourself to get things back under control

Chris looked away, down at the table. Something was definitely up: Tom touched the back of the psycher’s hand.

:: Chris?

Chris swallowed heavily, still wouldn’t look at him.

:: it may not be... I may not be projecting, as such, just... funnelling back to you

Tom was getting a bad feeling about thi – _was that even his own fucking feeling_? He resisted the urge to snatch his hand away.

:: explain

:: there’s a... I’ve formed a bond with you

:: which means

But Tom was already remembering Chris’ previous mention of a bond, the one that he’d had with the guy that’d abused him when he was a child. He hadn’t gone in to specifics but the implication of that bond – Tom had concluded – was being primed for manipulation, losing the ability to say ‘no’. 

Tom wasn’t a saint, he knew that, and no matter his best intentions he would eventually be tempted to take advantage. He pulled back physically from Chris.

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t realise it had happened!” Chris flicked the inhibitor. “This is like being deaf and blind.”

“All right, I accept that. When did you realise it had happened?”

“... Around the time you pointed out Dave’s, uh, interest in me.”

Tom stared at him.

“But that was fucking... You’ve known that long and never said anything? The fuck, Chris?”

“I didn’t know what to say.” Chris was hunching in on himself and a unkind part of Tom wanted him to stay like that, cowed and ashamed. “I didn’t want to let it go.”

“You selfish prick.” Tom recoiled reflexively as another thought occurred. “Are you able to get in to my head?”

“No, no! Nothing like that! I can’t read you, I can’t make you do anything.”

“Then what the hell is the point of it?!”

“It’s a... comfort.” Chris looked like he was on the verge of tears. “I’ve lived nearly all my life with these intangible connections, and then they weren’t there, and I was so, so alone. And then we started communicating and it was like holding out food to a starving man and I swear it wasn’t a conscious action, but I latched on to that and I’m sorry I’m sorry I didn’t say anything.”

Tom regarded him in cold silence. He thought he could understand what’d happened and why, but that didn’t make it all right. 

“If I hadn’t said anything, you would have continued to keep quiet about it.”

“Probably.” Chris whispered. “I’m sorry – “

“Shut up.” Tom snarled. “I can accept that this happened without your active involvement but then you _chose_ to keep it going and you _chose to keep it secret_. Fuck that. Can you shut it down?” Chris nodded. “Do it. I don’t want this, I don’t want the responsibility. Do you need to be away from me?”

“No.” Chris’ voice was uneven. “But it’ll be easier if we don’t touch.”

“Fine. And afterwards? Will you be able to sense if it’s happening again?” 

Chris nodded, miserable.

Tom really did understand about being forced to act against your nature, and while at the moment he was fucking furious with him, he still liked Chris – and _liked_ him – and didn’t want to see him suffer. Chris was psionic, he _needed_ psi contact: witholding that seemed needlessly cruel.

“So we’ll still be able to... chat. Yes? Without it getting complicated?”

“I... I know what to look out for now.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

The psycher twitched.

“No.” 

_Oh yes there was_. 

“Don’t lie to me.” He met Chris’ startled, and guilty eyes. “I’ll respect a decision to keep something private, but don’t ever fucking lie to me. Now. Is there something else?”

“Yes.” Chris blurted out. “But it doesn’t affect you, and it’s not going to change anything.”

“Fine.”

Except that now his curiosity was piqued. 

Tom squashed it down. _No_. No. He said he’d respect Chris’ privacy and he would bloody well do that, until such time he felt it was in his best interests to know.

~~~oOo~~~

Chris made himself scarce for the rest of the day – Tom ignored the thread of concern winding through his gut – reappearing in time for dinner. Dorney picked up the silence between them, as did Old Arthur, but Dave seemed oblivious.

Arthur went so far as to pull Tom aside as they were dispersing for lock-in.

“Problem?” He lifted his chin towards Chris.

“A slight hiccup.” Tom gave him his best managerial smile. “How’s Lowry working out?”

Padraig Lowry was a forty-three year old career criminal, armed hold-ups mostly, and Arthur’s new cellmate. 

“He snores.” The old con wheezed a laugh. “But then so do I! We rub along fine so long as we don’t talk about football.” 

Tom chuckled, wished him good night and carried on to his cell. 

 

Tom lay awake in the dark, tense and restless; neither he nor Chris said a word to each other or exchanged a look between lock-in and lights out. He wanted to know if Chris had dealt with the bond yet but couldn’t bring himself to ask. Would he know when it happened? Had it happened already? He wasn’t getting anything from Chris – 

The... _loss_ hit him hard and fast, exploding behind his sternum before disappearing just as quickly. It left him gasping silently, too stunned to move.

 _Chris_.

“Are you...” Tom cleared his throat. “Are you all right?”

“...I’ll survive.” He sounded small and tired. “Did you feel that?”

“I think so.” Tom hedged.

“Sorry, should’ve warned you.”

“Okay. Good night.”

Chris mumbled something in reply that Tom didn’t quite catch, then they lapsed back in to silence.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot, such as it is, thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Editing. So much editing.

Of course Indie had known what’d happened as soon as she saw him in the Visits Hall. 

“Oh, Chris...”

While he appreciated his sister’s concern he was still raw and irritable, so pushed away from her hug earlier than he normally would’ve. She didn’t say anything about that, or when he didn’t respond to her :: greeting, or when he kept himself pointedly out of reach after they sat down. 

“When did it happen?”

Chris’ smile was sour: when had he broken the bond with Tom and gouged a wound into himself?

“Three nights ago.”

Indie nodded; her large dark eyes were solemn. 

“I’m sorry you’re hurting, but I’m glad you saw sense, and you know the pain will pass.”

“I didn’t ‘see sense’.” He growled, irritated further by her complacence that _naturally_ he’d followed her suggestion. “Tom asked me to break it.”

Indie blinked, then scowled, and Chris knew her well enough he didn’t need a psionic connection to know exactly what she was thinking. Her normally biddable brother hadn’t listened to _her_ advice but instead to some attractive blow-in with a nice arse? Yeah, well, Tom had assumed an importance with him that superseded his sister.

Chris did feel a pang of remorse as he watched her diplomatically reign in her emotions but he was not going to apologise for being moody and in pain. 

“How did he find out?”

“I told him.” Chris concentrated on the scratches in the table top. “He said he’d wondered if I’d started projecting again because he was catching my emotions.”

“And he asked you to break it?” 

“ _Told_ me to. Said he ‘didn’t want the responsibility’.” Chris hunched down. “This was after he found out I’d known about it for weeks but hadn’t said anything.” 

He pushed back the hot shame and guilt he still felt at taking advantage of Tom to serve his own needs – he’d justifiably been called a selfish prick – or was the guilt and shame just because he’d been found out? That would be worse, but either way he was a terrible person.

“Chris?” 

Indie’s hands were on the table, not encroaching on his space but within reach if he wanted or needed the contact. Chris kept his hands in his lap: he just couldn’t bear any comfort at the moment.

“He said he felt it when the bond broke, Indie.” Chris’ voice cracked. “That’s never happened before.”

“You’ve only ever bonded with standards before.” She gave him a small smile. “And he, technically, isn’t a standard. How has he been?”

Chris could see she didn’t want to ask the question, but he loved her for doing so. 

“Quiet.”

To be honest, Chris had spent most of the past two days nursing his own misery, and keeping himself together enough to function, to pay much attention to anybody else, but Tom _had_ been quiet. Not simply the quiet that came with barely speaking to each other but a watchful, wary silence, especially when they were alone. The ache from the loss of Tom’s trust mingled with the ache of wanting to touch him: it made Chris hurt all over.

“Is there anything I can do?” Indie asked softly.

“No.” He sighed, relenting at the love and concern in her expression: he was angry and hurt but shouldn’t take it out on her. “As you say. It’ll pass. I’ll be fine.” He mustered a smile, a proper one. “I just need some time.”

“Okay, but you let me know if you need anything.” She wagged a finger playfully at him. “I will not hesitate to go full-out irritating little sister on your arse if you don’t. You know I will.”

Chris chuckled despite himself, it felt good.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m quaking in my boots.”

Indie leant back, tilting her head slightly as she regarded him. That meant she had something to say but wasn’t sure how he was going to react. Chris huffed a sigh.

“What?”

“Have you heard of an Elyse MacCrae?”

Chris shrugged.

“Don’t think so. Why?”

“She’s a researcher. She’s been nibbling at the edges of your court files.” Indie was watching him closely. “She’s an ex-girlfriend of Hiddleston’s.”

His already fragile good mood evaporated.

“Shit.” 

“What?” Suspicion, or something similar, had sharpened his sister’s features. 

“I told him about Meerkins.”

“You _what_?” Indie hissed, curving forward like she was going to slap him. “There was an _agreement_ , Chris.”

“I _know._ ” He snapped back, not feeling very placatory.

“Then why did you say anything?”

“You want to know why I told him?” Chris rumbled darkly. “ _Fine_...” 

He stopped dead as he remembered something. 

“No, wait... He brought the name up first.”

“How did he – “ Indie subsided into a prickly silence as her brother held up his hand for her to _hold on a moment_.

“It was after I came out of hospital.” Chris went back through his memories. “There was some banter about payment... then out of the blue he said ‘Jonathan Meerkins’. He was fishing for a connection, I think. He knew I worked at the Foundation, and knew that Meerkins was associated with us, and that he’d recently died.”

Indie was frowning.

“But how did he... how could he suspect enough to ask? We... were very careful.” 

Chris almost smiled.

“The thing you have to understand about Tom is that he is really sharp, he doesn’t miss a trick, and he’s connected.”

“That may be.” Indie shook her head. “But why did you give him what he was after?” 

“He saved my life.” 

“Oh, come on!” She snapped. “That’s a bit melodramatic, isn’t it?"

“I’m serious.” Chris insisted. “Remember when I was admitted to hospital here? How the meds had got so fucked up I was only a couple of hours away from irreversible brain damage? Or almost certainly would’ve died if I’d been left alone that night?”

His sister’s face was pinched and unhappy. It didn’t matter that Chris was fine, or that the prison doctor originally charged with his care had been suspended pending an investigation for negligence, she still blamed herself for letting that whole catastrophe manifest to begin with. 

“Tom alerted the guards that there was something seriously wrong, and got me medical help.” Chris continued. “He saved my life. I repaid him with information. Also...” He scrubbed a hand through his hair; it was almost down to his shoulders now, where it wasn’t shaved back to his scalp. “I honestly thought I was meant to conveniently die in here and I wanted someone else, someone outside of the circle to know the truth. So yes, I told him. Did he then go and tell his old girlfriend? I have no idea.”

“That was still such an irresponsible thing to do. There’s more at stake than just _your_ life.”

Chris gave her a sarcastic little wave.

“Yes, hello, poster child and object lesson for irresponsibility and bad decisions.”

Indie snorted.

“You were sooooo promising, too. Golden boy.” She eyed his hair. “Literally.”

“Yeah, right. I’m not the one who ended up practically in charge of a large, influential organisation – “

“I’m one of three executive directors.” She protested, smirking: this was a comfortable old squabble, one that didn’t lessen their acknowledgement and support of each other’s very different strengths and achievements. “Accountable to several layers of government and internal bureaucracies.”

Chris was grinning now, too.

“Oh, boo hoo. Your salary is more than enough to compensate for navigating red-tape, I’m sure.”

“You know my salary’s not _that_ good! _Dick_.” Indie muttered fondly. She glanced at her watch and sighed. “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Will you be all right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Thanks for coming.”

“Same time next week?” She stood up.

“If you can spare time from your very important job.”

“Oh, shut up.” Indie stepped in for a hug that lasted as long as her brother allowed, but was still longer than their first that day. “If you’re not careful I’ll find a reason to be unavailable and send Perdy instead.”

“You’re a monster.” Chris whispered, smiling in to her hair. 

She looked up at him, serious again.

“Could you talk to Hiddleston? Find out what and how much he knows? I’m... concerned.”

Chris nodded and stepped away from his sister. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“And... have you made a decision about coming off the meds yet?”

“Now is _really_ not a good time.” He sighed. “But I’m still inclined to say no.”

“All right, but Perdy’s going to want a definite answer soon.”

“Perdy can bite my arse!”

Indie giggled.

“I’ll pass that on, shall I...?”

~~~oOo~~~

When he got back to his cell Chris found Tom in a meeting with his two potential new helpers; Rocco Grant from Manchester, and Alix Biggs – Biggsy – late of Dagenham.

Interestingly, Tom was sitting on Chris’ bed, allowing the visitors to sit on his. Chris wouldn’t have minded if they’d been sitting on his bed but it was thoughtful of Tom anyway.

“Oh, sorry.” Chris said. “I can come back?”

“We’re just about done.” Tom smiled distantly at him. 

He looked tired and seemed stiff when he stood up. Chris was reminded he hadn’t given him a massage in days. Was he in pain? 

“Thanks for coming, gentlemen. We’ll talk again soon.”

Biggsy was white, with the kind of pallor that came from never stepping out in to the sunshine if it could at all be helped. He stank of cigarettes, too, but nothing worse. He merely nodded to Chris as he left the cell but Rocco gave him a ‘hey, man’ and a genial smile. He was mixed race with disarmingly cute freckles that contrasted the fine scars cross hatching his forehead and eyebrows. 

Both men were several inches shorter than himself, and both looked like they could handle themselves in a fight. Biggsy in particular had the irregular features of a seasoned scrapper.

Tom shifted to sit on his own bed, and yes, he was definitely not moving very easily.

“Is your back sore?” Chris asked.

“A little.” Tom shrugged. “My own fault. Overdid it in the gym. How was your visit?”

“Always good to see my sister.” Chris hated how stilted their conversations had become. He pointed to the half-empty packet of chocolate digestives on the table. “Do you mind...?”

“Help yourself.” Tom pushed them over.

Chris plucked out a biscuit but didn’t eat it straight away.

“I have a question to ask.”

“Go ahead.” 

Tom was employing the pleasantly neutral tone of voice he used for the world in general. Chris hated that too, especially after having heard his warmer, private voice.

“You asked me about Meerkins. How did you know his name?”

Tom regarded him squarely. 

“Limited or not, I wondered what a psycher was doing here. I asked a friend to see what they could find out.”

“This friend? Was it Elyse MacCrae?”

“Yes.” Tom’s eyes had narrowed. “Why?”

Chris ignored the question.

“What did she find out?”

It seemed for a moment that Tom wasn’t going to respond, but then he... relaxed.

“That your court records were locked and there was a media suppression order on the whole thing.” He paused. “And that a very good attempt had been made to remove any trace of you from public record in connection with the Foundation.”

“An attempt?” Chris was beginning to get worried: what’d been missed in the clean up? “Where did she go looking?”

“I can’t say.” Tom was dismissive. “Now, answer my question: why are you asking about Elyse?”

“Her investigations have been noticed.” Chris replied bluntly. “She needs to back off. What?” 

Tom was shaking his head. 

“Elyse has a very strong social conscience, if she perceives an injustice she will do her best to set it right.”

“What injustice?” Chris clenched his fists. “I murdered someone, now I’m in prison.”

“Yes, because it really is as straightforward as that.” Tom scoffed. 

He counted off the points on his fingers. 

“An apparently violent psionic, who isn’t being dealt with by the Psionic Institute, has been sent to a standard prison, and _not even a maximum security prison_. A psionic kills a prominent and wealthy member of the establishment and it _doesn’t_ make the media? The trial isn’t reported anywhere and the court records are locked. There’s been an attempt to remove any connection between the murderer and his alleged victim. Oh, and the victim’s death is recorded publically as ‘quietly, at home’. This screams ‘cover up’. Of course Elyse’s interest was piqued.” 

Chris absently gnawed his bottom lip.

“She has to stop.”

Tom leant forward.

“ _Why_?” 

“Because it’s dangerous. Because she doesn’t know the full story.” He saw Tom’s expression change, subtly, and realised what it meant. “You told her why I killed Meerkins, didn’t you? That’s why she’s pursuing this.”

“... Yes.”

“Oh fuck.” Chris scrubbed at his forehead. “ _Fuck_.”

:: what is it?

Tom had, reflexively it seemed, grabbed his wrist. Something tight and tense in Chris finally unwound but he didn’t let himself relax in to it. He didn’t pull away though, either. 

:: she has to stop investigating there are reasons this was buried fuckfuckfuck

:: what reasons is Elyse in danger?

:: can’t tell you and yes she is she has to stop I don’t... I don’t know if what she’s doing has been noticed by anyone other than us

:: us?

:: FoundationInstituteUs

:: psionics

:: the important ones the leaders

:: what’s going on

Chris broke contact then, twisting his wrist out from beneath Tom’s fingers. 

“This is broader than just me ripping a paedophile to pieces.”

He shut his mouth, determined not to say anything else while being uneasily aware that he’d already said too much. Tom was smart, he could probably join the dots all on his own now. The best Chris could hope for at this point was that Tom might consider the situation serious enough to do something to convince his friend to leave it alone. 

Premonitions were not Chris' thing but right now...? He could see the walls of his world shaking.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recent events from Tom's POV
> 
> [and an edit: pinknoonicorn pointed out that Geordie isn't the Manchester accent. Sorrysorrysorry...!]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short one, sorry - and apologies in advance - it's probably going to be a bit snippetty while I work through this section. But little and often is better than nothing right?

When the bond had broken there’d been that initial flare of heart-stopping pain, then... nothing, or so Tom had thought. Only it wasn’t nothing, as in an absence of pain and a return to normal, it was _nothing_ , he’d come to realise, an emptiness, an absence of _anything_.

He’d lain awake for hours, unable to sleep and chiding himself for feeling, what...? Bereft? He’d wanted this, he reminded himself, he’d _demanded it_ , but knowing this, and knowing that it was the best course of action for him, for both of them, hadn’t stopped him feeling suddenly, acutely, alone. 

He’d stared at Chris’ back the whole time he was awake, not being able to tell if the psycher was asleep or not, and that was more distressing than he’d thought possible. He wanted to go over there and offer comfort, or be comforted, but the small part of him that was still angry at being lied to stubbornly resisted the inclination and eventually he slept. 

Chris looked rough the next day, but then so did Tom when he observed himself in the mirror to shave. He pasted on his standard, distancing manager’s smile and went about his business as usual, or as usual as he could manage given there was always at least some part of his attention dedicated to monitoring Chris. 

Old Arthur introduced him to his two new candidates, Rocco and Biggsy. 

Rocco was a light-skinned black man, intelligent and outwardly affable with an accent that was a mixture of Manchester and Jamaican. It was charming, but as Tom supposed that he was meant to find it charming he didn’t let it distract him. He also knew enough about gang insignia to not ask Rocco directly about the pattern of scars on his forehead - that he made no attempt to conceal - but Arthur had assured him Rocco had no conflicting loyalties inside or out that could impact on his functioning as a 2IC. 

Biggsy though... he didn’t speak much and he looked like a proper thug, but he was as sharp as a razor and clearly reserving judgement on Tom, on his posh accent and the obvious advantages of his upbringing. Tom made no attempt to win him over, but treated him – and Rocco – the same as he tended to treat most of his subordinates, with courtesy and a respect for their intelligence. Tom’s atypically regimented life had taught him that allies were sometimes just a matter of convenience and proximity but loyalty was more valuable had to be earned.

Rocco and Biggsy started taking their meals with him, swelling his little posse, and if Rattray saw that as a threat... well, who gave a fuck what he thought?

Tom covertly watched the new boys interact with the others. How did they treat Dave, or Dorney? Old Arthur? How did they respond to Chris? He watched those interactions particularly closely. Rocco, again outwardly, was as friendly and open with the psycher as anyone else but there was definitely a reserve to his manner, a hint of nerves: he didn’t get too close and eye contact was fleeting. What Tom saw with Biggsy was more encouraging. He’d look Chris full in the eyes, no challenge issued, and without the overtones of bravado that came from _I’m not scared of you_. Tom suspected Biggsy knew, or had at least had previous contact with psionics. 

And Chris? He remained withdrawn, flat. He was making an effort to behave as normal but it was painfully obvious to Tom how much he was hurting. Tom... accepted the guilt he felt about this, then tried to put it aside, all the while being on his guard against touching Chris. It was hard to keep his distance though and he told himself it was because he pitied the psycher and wanted to ease his discomfort. But Tom couldn’t break the habit of a lifetime of brutal self-honesty; he wanted to touch Chris because he, apparently, needed the comfort. It was an appalling weakness, but what were weaknesses except obstacles to be overcome on the road to strength.

Then Chris had asked him about Elyse, naming her, and a horrible unease had swelled in Tom as he’d watched the psycher become more and more agitated about his friend, what she was doing, and why. 

He’d grabbed Chris’ wrist – a reflex action – and the sense of being alone, _isolated_ , vanished. Concern for Elyse’s safety gave him the impetus to ignore the almost physical relief he felt, allowing him to keep pushing Chris for answers. Maddeningly, the psycher refused to be drawn, only hinting about bigger issues, and then he’d physically pulled away from him but not before Tom had sensed his genuine fear.

Chris had bolted, not returning until the evening meal. He was edgy, his anxiety almost apparent enough to draw attention and so Tom fought the impulse to even casually reach out to him. He watched Chris instead, obliquely, keeping an eye on him and ready to intervene if... 

_Shit_ , Tom had no idea what could go wrong, actually, but an irrational sense of impending doom niggled at him. 

Lock-in was something of a relief because he could finally drop his guard. Chris was still unwilling to talk to him however so they spent another evening in silence, and Tom spent another mostly sleepless night staring at the psycher’s back while his mind churned over and over and over...

~~~oOo~~~

The next day Tom was told he had a visitor: he almost laughed at the irony, because of course it was Elyse.

He greeted her warmly but she took his hands, stopping the hug before it could start, then leant forward to kiss his cheek.

“Hi, Tom. How’ve you been?” She was scanning his face, the scars still visible on his scalp. “I should’ve come in to see you earlier...”

“No, you shouldn’t have.” He smiled to soften any potential asperity. “Not if you didn’t want to. How are you?”

“Good.” Her smile was almost shy, and she was looking up at him through her eyelashes. It wasn’t the least bit flirtatious, Tom realised. “I’m actually here to ask you a favour.”

“Well, after all the favours I’ve asked of you over the years...” 

They took their seats.

“How can I help?”

“Could you ask Christopher Hemsworth if I could meet with him?”

“Chris?” Tom frowned, taken aback. “Why?”

“I’m not sure if it was your intention to goad me in to action when you told me about him.” But Elyse was giving him a look that implied she knew that that’d been precisely his intention. “I’d like to get his side of the story.”

Tom leant back in his chair.

“Yeah, about that. You may need to rethink your involvement.”

“Why?”

He considered, briefly, spinning some vague yarn but quickly realised that wouldn’t wash. Honesty it was, then.

“The psionics, at least, know you’ve been looking around. They know who you are.”

Elyse froze for a split second. 

“I’ve been careful about covering my tracks.”

“Not careful enough. I don’t want to frighten – “

“How do _you_ know this?” She cut across him, suspicion colouring her tone.

“Chris told me.” 

“Chris Hemsworth?”She quirked an eyebrow at Tom’s answering nod. “All right. What specifically did he say?”

Tom thought back to... was it only last night?

“That your investigation had been noticed and you need to back off. That it’s dangerous.” He pre-empted her next question. “He told me this after he’d had a visit from his sister.”

“This would be his foster sister, Indira Mehra?” Elyse blinked rapidly a couple of times as she accessed her memories. “One of the executive directors of the Wings Foundation?”

Tom could only nod: he knew Indie’s name, but not her position, or that Chris was quite so well connected. That was an unforgiveable oversight on his part, but he’d never tried to get more information from Chris about himself other than what he’d given him voluntarily. It would seem that his attraction to the psycher had made him go softly. _Well, shit_ , that was a mistake he hadn’t made in years.

“He also said, specifically, that there were reasons this was buried.” Tom added.

“Of course there are.” Elyse shrugged. “It’s obvious.”

Tom’s mouth didn’t drop open; he had more self-discipline than that. Elyse gave him a small smile.

“I should perhaps amend that to: it’s obvious to someone who has an active interest in social justice and has been accumulating relevant knowledge for years.”

“Thank you, now I don’t feel quite so stupid.” Tom half-smiled. “Care to elaborate for those of us not as heavily invested?”

Elyse paused to gather her thoughts.

“Psionics are a minority group, as you know, and historically their acceptance – or not – has varied widely between different countries and cultures. Currently in the Western world they’re more or less accepted, even welcomed, but there’s been small, localised upsets every few years, and the last major incident happened within living memory.”

Tom nodded: the Blackfriar’s Riots in the 50’s. Two weeks of terror starting in London and spreading throughout the country after decades of anti-psionic rhetoric tipped over into physical violence. Tom’s father had been a boy at the time but his grandfather had remembered the aggression clearly, even fondly, piss on his grave. 

“So, yes.” Elyse continued softly. “It’s all good right now but the psionics’ position isn’t unshakeable.” 

“And Chris, a psionic, has killed not just any old standard but one of the ‘ruling class’. Bloody hell.”

Tom could easily make the connection. Now. 

“Regardless of whether or not he was justified in killing Meerkins, the push-back from it could be massive.” Elyse said.

“But if you know this, if you're aware of the potential consequences, why are you still pursuing it?” He asked.

“There’s also the matter of a powerful family using their influence to hide evidence of crimes committed by one of their own.” Elyse’s expression hardened. “Crimes against vulnerable children that have been ongoing for decades. We’re supposed to be beyond that, as a society. That sort of shit was supposed to belong to an older, less democratic time.”

“Ah.”

“Yes. ‘ _Ah_ ’.” She breathed out, relaxing her shoulders. “So I want to get as much information as I can before I decide what to do.”

“Before you decide to go public with it or not?”

Elyse nodded, watching him carefully as he considered the options. 

“All right, I can ask Chris if he’ll see you.” Tom held up a warning hand. “But don’t get your hopes up. This is... it’s been hard for him.”

“Thanks.” Elyse was giving him a frankly assessing look. “When did he stop being ‘Hemsworth’ and become ‘Chris’?” 

Tom was momentarily flummoxed in to an awkward silence. Could he answer truthfully, or otherwise, without giving anything away?

“It’s... a long story.” He supplied at last, knowing exactly how lame that sounded. “How’s Flisty?”

Elyse smirked at his self-conscious change of topic.

“She’s driving me mad. You know she’s decided she wants to be a vet?” She shook her head. “I have no doubt at all that’s exactly what she’s going to do but she talks about nothing else and suddenly she’s obsessed with cows! They’re all over the place! Pictures, toys, charts of the different breeds! She’s even found an - admittedly adorable - pattern online and is teaching herself to knit so she can make it. Be prepared for knitted goods for Christmas, by the way, probably cow-themed. Just warning you.”

Tom chuckled.

“Consider me forewarned. She hasn’t had any problems? No one’s come looking for her?”

“No. And she’s finally stopped reading the emails your father was sending. She showed me some of them.” Elyse shuddered. 

“He was trying to get her to come home?” 

“Yep, and managing to be both condescending and emotionally manipulative.” She made a noise of disgust. “‘ _How could you hurt me like this, your own father_ ’ and ‘ _You’re too young to know what you really want_ ’. Bastard, he could guilt-trip for England.”

Tom sighed.

“Oh yes, world class.” He lightly touched the tip of his fingers to the back of her hand, then withdrew. “Thank you for helping her. I was really worried.”

“Flisty’s tougher than she looks.” Elyse smiled. “And way more stubborn than any of us gave her credit for.”

“Has she... is she seeing anyone?” Tom grimaced. “I feel very strange asking that question.”

“Now you’re sounding like a big brother!” Elyse grinned. “But no, she’s not. I don’t think she’s interested, to be honest, she’s having far too much fun emotionally investing in cows.”

“Cows.” Tom matched her grin.

“ _Cows_.” Elyse responded, giggling...

 

Tom left the Visits Hall feeling more cheerful than he had in days, mostly because he and Elyse still seemed to be friendly. It was unlikely they’d ever get back to anything more than that – and he was a little surprised as how unconcerned he was about the loss of a relatively uncomplicated sexual partner – but, it would be... good if they could remain friends. He liked that idea, and in the spirit of that friendship he would talk to Chris for her.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting there...
> 
> (thank you, [thebookhunter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thebookhunter/pseuds/thebookhunter%22), from prompts and nudges. :)
> 
> (oh for... senility looms. I've forgotten how to do the linky thing.)

The walk from the Visits Hall to his cell wasn’t nearly long enough for Tom to process what he’d just discussed with Elyse, but one element had become obvious; that he hadn’t truly been considering Chris in all this. 

Tom wasn’t a _nice_ person, he knew this. He’d grown up selfish and manipulative in service to his need to be in control, but unlike his father he’d managed to not be a complete arsehole, on the surface at least. He understood that people were more willing to hang around, remaining useful, if you treated them well, if you didn’t scare them unnecessarily. He’d never really let anybody get close, though, maintaining the illusion of openness while doing just enough to keep beneficial relationships going. He’d never really cared enough about anybody – except Flisty – to put himself out for them. 

Chris, Tom suspected, would be the other exception, and the idea was making him uncharacteristically uneasy. It wasn’t as if he strode through life deliberately leaving a trail of the hurt and disappointed in his uncaring wake, but sometimes it happened, and sometimes it was deserved. He would make amends if necessary but mostly he just walked away, rarely experiencing the uncomfortable clench in his gut he was feeling now. Because Chris was in pain, and it was at least partially – perhaps mostly – his fault. 

 

Chris looked up from his pile of articles – he was still ploughing through the research despite his supposedly firm decision to not stop the medication – and gave Tom a brief, distant smile. It morphed to a frown though when he saw how gingerly Tom was moving, lowering himself carefully to sit on his bed. 

“Bit of a twinge.” Tom gave Chris his own, brief smile. “Nothing serious.” 

“You should probably do some extra stretching.”

“I will, later.”

Chris went back to his reading, his thick, dark-blonde eyebrows furrowing in concentration. Tom sat, watching him, noting the undiminished shadows around his eyes, the red puffiness of his eyelids. 

“I’ve just had a visit from my friend Elyse.” Tom spoke in to the silence. “Elyse MacCrae.” 

“Uhuh.” Chris didn’t look up.

“She’d like to meet you.”

“Why?”

“She’d like to get your perspective. On your case.”

“ _Would she?_ ” 

Tom might’ve winced a bit at the sudden bite in Chris’ tone; he did flinch though, at the unbanked anger in the psycher’s eyes. Chris held his gaze, unblinking, for several seconds. It was Tom who finally looked away. 

“Tell your _friend_ – “ and there was a wealth of accusation there. “I am currently unavailable for social engagements.”

Chris picked up a pen and made a notation in the margin of an article, next to an underlined paragraph. His body language clearly said the conversation was over.

Tom cleared his throat, softly.

“Can I ask you some questions?”

“So you can report straight back to _her_?”

Chris didn’t look up; he made another notation, digging the pen in to the paper.

“No. I promise this will remain between us, in confidence.” Tom said. “I just want to try and understand the situation.”

“So you can satisfy your curiosity?” 

“Not just that.” Tom responded mildly, refusing to be needled by the sarcasm. 

Chris didn’t say yes or no, but he was at least looking at him again. Tom moved his hand so his fingers were hovering over the psycher’s wrist: the need to touch was acute.

“May I?” He murmured.

The psycher nodded curtly. He shivered as Tom’s fingers made contact with his skin, visibly relaxing. Tom relaxed with him.

:: you plead guilty to killing Meerkins not because you were guilty but to avoid a trial:: Chris nodded. :: were you given a choice

The psycher’s lips twitched in to a humourless smile.

:: of course, but once the implications had been explained there was no other choice to make

:: even though there could have been a chance of a reduced sentence or being exonerated

Chris frowned.

:: I committed murder. regardless of why I did it I still did it

:: you were unconscious for days you said and this had all been negotiated before you were woken up

:: yes... I don’t... what are you trying to say?

Something, several things had clicked in to place for Tom.

:: you weren’t give a choice you were manipulated to sacrifice yourself for the greater good and gotten out of the way 

:: ... how very conspiracy theorist of you

:: the Meerkins’ family agreed to a cover up very quickly only a matter of days no opportunity to protest his innocence or see justice done someone knew or suspected what he was doing 

Chris’ fist clenched; Tom could feel the muscles quiver beneath his fingers.

:: they may not have known the full story but once it came out they needed distance fast and now the psis had ammunition to use on your behalf which is why you were kept out of the Institute:: He stroked a fingertip over Chris’ skin. :: what would have happened if you’d been sent there

:: I would have gone mad or died eventually:: Chris was blunt. :: we don’t do very well for very long with our abilities repressed

Tom nodded, remembering his older sister, then continued.

:: so with at least some complicity from the Institute you’re here being kept out of the way but alive and sane and your abilities are being allowed to remanifest why

Chris was staring at him.

:: I’ve never... questioned

:: you just did as you were asked for reasons you thought were important not that they weren’t important:: he added, at Chris’ sharp look. :: they are obviously but what if something else is going on as well

:: ... like what?

:: what if certain elements want you to go on trial to expose Meerkins and his shitty family and by association a whole extra layer of corruption

Chris’ eyes narrowed.

:: someone in the judiciary had to agree to sealing the court records

Tom nodded slowly.

:: but what about... :: Chris rubbed at his forehead with his free hand. :: the fallout against psionics if this becomes public – 

:: Elyse pointed that out to me but what if it’s been overstated a risk certainly but calculated compared to exposing a deep societal rot:: He leant forward. :: what if you were only told what you needed to hear to keep you compliant

The psycher’s expression was hard to interpret, but his tone was firm.

:: speculation

:: at this point

:: but if this does go... as deep as you’re saying then your friend is in even more danger. it won’t be just one disaffected family lined up against her

:: I know I think she does too but she’s not likely to back off 

:: she’s already lifted the lid. that might be enough to get the ball rolling? would that be an argument she’d listen to?

:: possibly but she’s stubborn

Chris closed his eyes and was silent for a moment. 

:: all right I’ll talk to her if only to try and make her understand the danger

:: thanks

Tom pulled his hand away from the psycher’s skin, twitching in surprise when he felt... what? A physical sensation? Something delicate, stretching and snapping like weak elastic. 

Chris was looking at him with a mildly curious expression and for a moment Tom thought he’d felt whatever-it-was, too. 

“Back’s sore? Have a shower before you stretch. Maybe take some paracetamol.”

No, apparently he’d just been reacting to Tom’s movement which was... ‘disappointing’ was too strong a word for such an ephemeral incident, and Tom was already convincing himself it had been his imagination anyway. 

“Thank you, doctor.” 

Chris looked back down, but there was a ghost of a smile there.

“I’ll invoice you.”

~~~oOo~~~

Chris got Elyse’s phone number from Tom then added her name to his list of visitors the next morning. She’d be informed within a day, and then he imagined it would only be a matter of time before she was in contact.

The atmosphere between Tom and himself had lightened but there was still a noticeable distance. The brief moments of physical contact they’d shared had been so, so soothing but Chris resisted the urge to reach out again. Why? Even when he knew how much relief it would bring? Because he was stubborn, and harbouring a lingering conviction that Tom had somehow manipulated him in to agreeing to talk to his friend. Which was rich of the wanker after he’d gone to so much trouble to point out how Chris might have been manipulated by others. He hadn’t even been subtle about it. 

As it was, Elyse MacCrae didn’t give him much time to dwell on the questions and theories swirling around in his head: two days after Tom had passed on her request, she was sitting opposite him in the Visits Hall. 

She’d smiled and shook his hand without hesitation, thanking him for seeing her. She was pretty, he couldn’t help but notice. Her auburn hair was smooth and shiny; she had the lightest smattering of freckles on her cheeks.

“I’ll get straight to the point, Mr Hemsworth.”

Chris smiled automatically.

“Just Chris, please.”

“Thank you.” Her smile was wide and engaging. “Please call me Elyse. Right, so Tom’s probably told you what I’ve been working on?”

“He has.”

“He’s tried to warn me off – are you going to do the same?”

“Yes.”

“Your reasons?”

Chris sighed: he was so tired.

“You already know what they are. You’re going up against a number of powerful people who don’t want any of this to become public knowledge, and who are certainly ruthless enough to consider silencing you, if they find out who you are.” 

“And if they don’t find out who I am? If I can remain anonymous?”

“Then the possible consequences of exposing psionics to another wave of hate should make you take fucking stock!” Chris rubbed his face. “Sorry. Sorry.”

“That’s okay.” She didn’t seem particularly rattled, in fact she was leaning forward, a look of soft concern on her face. “Are you all right?”

“Just fine.” Chris lied. “Why are you so hell bent of doing this anyway?”

“Because I believe you’ve been treated very shabbily. And then there’s the matter of Meerkins’ victims.” She was watching him closely. “Plural.”

Chris froze: how much had Tom told her? Everything he’d told Tom, by the sound of it.

“You have no evidence.”

“None. But I’m extremely sceptical that the little girl you saved was the only one.” 

Chris kept quiet: she might know as much as Tom did but he wasn’t going to confirm anything for her. He also realised the ‘you’ve started the ball rolling and can now step back’ argument was patently ridiculous and felt a renewed wave of annoyance at Tom for letting him believe it could have had any effect.

“The more you go poking around the more likely it is that your identity will be discovered.”

Elyse was shaking her head, a small smile quirking her lips.

“Your lot already know who I am.”

“Then the others won’t be far behind! Why keep risking it?”

“Because it’s important. I can’t turn a blind eye to this, _we_ \- ” she made a small sweeping gesture with her hand, encompassing the rest of the world. “ – shouldn’t turn a blind eye.”

Chris’ scanned her face and saw nothing but determination. His shoulders slumped: he wasn’t going to be able to budge her, but maybe... 

“I’m going to give you a phone number.” He could point her in the direction of someone whose profession was making people listen to reason. “Do you have a pen and paper?”

“I’ll remember it.”

He wasn’t sure he believed her, but whatever, it would be her own fault if she didn’t. He carefully recited the familiar string of digits.

“That’s Indira Mehra’s direct number, let her know I gave it to you, and please don’t give it to anyone else.”

“I won’t, and thank you so much, Chris.” She was beaming at him. “I really appreciate your help.”

He could only nod.

“Good luck.”

“I’ll need it?”

She was playful, and bright. No wonder Tom had been attracted. Was he still attracted?

“Shit yes...”

~~~oOo~~~

“Did you manage to convince her to stop?”

“No.”

Tom frowned: Chris was just standing there in the cell, radiating dejection and fatigue.

“Are you all right?”

“... _no_.”

It was such a small, broken word: Tom was on his feet and moving towards Chris before he realised what he was doing. He’d meant to hold himself back, to not get close, but found he was pulling the psycher in to a hug before his rational self could process the action, let alone put a stop to it.

There was a moment of resistance and hesitation then Chris not only allowed the contact, he reciprocated, his arms coming up to circle Tom’s waist, his head dropping tiredly on to Tom’s shoulder. The happiness bubbled up through Tom so quickly it made him light-headed.

He smiled in to the psycher’s neck.

:: maybe everything will be all right maybe the world won’t end

:: maybe

He could physically feel Chris relaxing, the tension leaving his broad frame as his breathing evened out. And then Tom opened his eyes. 

He’d been too preoccupied with concern for Chris to check for spectators, normally a standard precaution, and he couldn’t say for sure that nobody had been looking in before. But someone was there now, brazenly standing in the doorway and clearly delighted with what he was seeing. 

Tom stared flatly at ‘Sally’ Wilkins, one of Rattray’s chums, silently daring him to say anything. Wilkins merely gave him a lecherous smirk then sauntered off. 

_Shit_. He may have just given Rattray more ammunition.


	19. Chapter 19

Tom had immediately told Chris about Wilkins catching them in that hug, but as the psycher was stressed enough already he’d made sure to brush it off as a minor irritation, no big deal. He’d also decided not to say anything to the rest of his crew about it, but was forced to reconsider as the day progressed and the obvious, unsubtle scrutiny he and Chris were being subjected to by Rattray and chums became even more obvious and unsubtle. Reminiscent of the sociological experiment where one person staring intently at the sky soon leads to others doing the same, even if they don’t know why, it wasn’t long before Chris and Tom found themselves under close observation by seemingly fucking everyone. It was intrusive; it was dangerous, what with the guards beginning to pay attention; and it was bloody close to harassment. It was pissing Tom off.

“Later.” Tom responded to the inquiring twitch of Old Arthur’s eyebrow as they sat down for the evening meal. 

The elderly prisoner had been the only one to give any outward indication that he’d noticed something - everyone else was following Tom’s lead and ignoring it - and Chris was seemingly subdued, as he had been for the past few days.

Tom and Chris’ feet were resting against each other, hidden beneath the table.

:: I’m going to have to say something they’ll want to know what’s going on

:: I was upset. you were comforting me

:: except I’m not known for my compassion or bestowing of physical affection

:: it’ll be construed as sexual

:: which is fine for you you’re the ‘daddy’ the prison population is largely made up of low intelligence Neanderthals who believe in the dynamics of dominance ergo if I’m being fucked I’m not the boss if I’m not the boss I have no authority if I have no authority I’m a soft target

A tiny smile twitched in the corners of Chris’ mouth.

:: you could parade me around in chains and I could kneel at your feet. would that help?

Tom lowered his head, hiding the sudden smirk.

:: tempt me not petal

After dinner they commandeered one of the tables in the rec area for a few rounds of poker before lock in, not an unusual event, and the general din in there was such they could talk without being overheard. Tom had been gearing up to speak but it was Chris who took the lead in telling the tale. No one batted an eye at his needing comfort, neither did they mock, even gently, Tom’s response, though the look on Dave’s face had been hard to interpret. Tom was grateful for the normalcy with which the whole incident was treated, and a bit perturbed: how obvious was this thing between them? 

“Wilkins is a snitching piece of shit.” Biggsy scowled, drawing a card.

“Fuck ‘em.” Was Arthur’s opinion. “They’ll get bored and give it up. Well, Rattray’s cunts will take longer, because they’re cunts, but the rest of ‘em will stop watching soon enough. If there’s nothing to see.” He concluded, in an overly casual tone of voice.

The consensus was that if they continued as normal, were circumspect, ignored the bullshit, it would eventually blow over, at least in relation to the rest of the inmates. Tom didn’t believe for a second that Rattray wasn’t still going to try and pull some crap using this ‘information’.

 

Later, Tom and Chris they lay in their respective beds but facing each other for the first time in... it seemed like ages. 

“I’m sorry.” Chris murmured. “You’d think I’d know by now how to behave in here.” 

“I wouldn’t have hugged you if I hadn’t wanted to.” It was mostly the truth, if _want_ and _need_ were posited as the same thing. Tom extended his hand; Chris took it without hesitation. :: I’m sorry I hurt you

:: breaking the bond?:: Chris squeezed his fingers. :: it had to be done and I’d been putting it off and putting it off

:: because it was a comfort it was helping you

:: it was poorly formed and the longer it was in place the less benefit it was to anyone

:: poorly formed?

:: unstable foundation. it’s like... building a house without proper preparation of the ground; the house will stand but it will be more susceptible to structural damage, and more likely to collapse:: Chris’ sigh was just audible. :: the strongest bonds come from a stable base and a mutual build

Tom was quiet, thinking.

:: you don’t have to answer this but how did it compare with that first bond you had 

He was asking about Curran, of course, the bastard who’d terrorised and abused Chris as a child.

Chris fidgeted over on to his back to stare at the ceiling. He hadn’t let go of Tom’s hand.

:: both formed before I knew what was going on. his because I had no idea, yours because I couldn’t sense it happening. I had no defence against him so that bond rooted very deeply very quickly. it was so deeply entwined with my psyche I needed help breaking it without wiping myself out. it was why he had such complete control over me. I was thirteen when it was finally erased

:: that’s terrible I’m sorry

:: with yours... I have defences now, ingrained, not affected by the limiter, the natural armour most normal psis develop. your bond didn’t go so deep that I was in danger of blanking myself when it broke:: he turned his head to look at Tom. :: you wouldn’t have had that level of control over me

Which, funnily enough, was exactly the information Tom had been angling towards: he wanted to know, morbidly, how bad it could have been for Chris. 

:: so I have to use good old fashioned regular manipulation to get you to do what I want:: The sound of Chris’ quiet chuckle made Tom smile. :: what could have happened if you’d let it go on

Chris breathed out.

:: it was insecure and fragile anyway it could have snapped on its own but an uncontrolled break is excruciating

:: more than that one was:: Tom could just see the frown on his cellmate’s face. :: I know it hurt and you’re still recovering

Chris’ fingers twitched.

:: how do you know?

Tom considered his answer carefully: yes, he liked Chris and probably considered him a friend, but he still didn’t want him to know how easily he could be read. 

:: you are much quieter and your body language is still saying wounded 

Chris chuckled again, but it wasn’t convincing this time.

:: I never would’ve made a good actor, or politician – I can’t pretend for shit. You on the other hand...

Tom snorted.

:: Old Arthur said I’d get his vote if I went in to politics

:: would you consider it?

:: fuck no me with that sort of power is a terrible idea

:: you’d prefer to be the power behind the throne?

:: absolutely when things go to shit it’s easier to get a head start in running away if it’s not obvious you’re to blame

Chris did laugh then, quietly, and the wellbeing flowed through Tom like a balm.

:: lessons learned?

:: lessons learned

The psycher yawned.

:: anyway, g’night

:: good night petal

:: sleep well, dick

They let their hands pull apart, and because Tom was – sort of – watching for it, he was once again aware of that odd, faint tug between them. He may not be imagining it then. He’d ask Chris about it later...

~~~oOo~~~

“What’s that you’ve got?”

Chris was looking at the A3 sheet folded in half and decorated colourfully, chaotically, with what appeared to be bits cut out of magazines interspersed with splotches of glitter and pencil sketches in a variety of children’s hands. 

Tom grinned.

“It’s a ‘thank you’ card from Rowdy’s grandkids.”

“Huh. Cute.” Chris’ smile was broad and soft. “They know who you are?”

Tom had told him - and only him, and sworn him to secrecy - about the fund he’d had his solicitor set up anonymously to help his old cell mate’s family.

“No, but Andi’s been their contact so they gave it to her to pass on.”

“That’s adorable!”

“A good leader looks after their people.” Tom shrugged, but he _was_ touched by the gesture. 

Chris pulled his towel and wash bag out of his cupboard, rummaged around for a change of clothes: putting his gym-sweaty gear back on after getting clean was not an option.

“I’m going to have a shower. We’ll do some weight training later, yes?”

Tom heaved a theatrical sigh.

“If I must.”

“You must.” Chris winked at him, before adding very, very softly, with the biggest, smuggest, shit-eating grin. “ _Because I’m the daddy and what I say goes._ ”

“Oh fuck off.” Tom sniggered. “ _Petal_.”

They’d kept their heads down and, as predicted, the interest in them had largely fallen away after a day or so. It hadn’t stopped Rattray trying to provoke something but as he wasn’t willing to make an overt move against ‘The Captain’ it had fizzled and died.

More importantly though Chris and Tom had resumed their still mostly covert physical contact, and they were both much happier and more relaxed for it. Tom recognised that his response to Chris’ distress and voluntarily reaching out to offer comfort had marked some sort of turning point for him. He was still deciding how he felt about that. 

Chris had been gone about ten minutes... and something was nagging in the back of Tom’s head... then Dave appeared, wide-eyed, at the door of his cell and Tom knew what it was before the boy spoke.

“Captain.” Dave whispered urgently. “Shower.”

“Get Rocco and Biggsy.”

Tom snatched up his towel and wash bag then strode purposefully, but not hurrying, certainly not breaking in to a run, to the wash room. 

It was deserted except for Chris, lying naked and curled over on his side in a characteristic defensive posture on the floor outside the cubicles. Tom darted over to him, his anger spiking, but the rational part of him that’d had a lifetime of being drilled again and again and again about being a leader and taking charge, firmly pushed the crystal shard of rage aside before it could make him do anything irrational. 

Tom wasn’t a medic but he’d had ample training and field experience in first aid and assessing injuries. Chris had obviously taken a kicking - ugly red bruises were forming over his ribs and back and buttocks – and though unconscious his breathing seemed even. Tom couldn’t see his stomach or chest clearly, and he wasn’t about to move him to do so, but there was more bruising on the side of his face that Tom could easily eyeball. Nothing was conspicuously broken.

Hand on Chris’ shoulder, Tom :: called him. Something stirred faintly in the distance but he couldn’t reach it.

Dave had arrived back with the new boys in tow. They all stared at Chris, Dave with horror, Rocco with speculation, and Biggsy with grim anger. 

“Is he – “ Dave began.

“Get a guard.” Tom instructed him. “Richards is on duty, so him in preference but don’t waste time if you can’t.” He turned to the other two. “Biggsy, stand guard outside here without being obvious, keep inmates out; Rocco, same outside my cell. Thank you, gentlemen.”

Chris was beginning to stir fretfully.

:: shh it’s okay stay still help is on the way

:: ... Tom...?

:: I’m here do you know who did this

But Chris had faded again.

Richards, one of Tom’s ‘specials’, hurried in. He was a young guard with a new family and a heavy mortgage. 

“Oh, shit.” He looked at Tom. “Do you know what happened?”

“I have a good idea.”

Richards called the incident in, requesting a medical team.

“Do you know who it was?” He whispered to Tom.

“Not directly.” Rattray wouldn’t have needed to get his hands dirty, it wasn’t that hard to find someone in here willing to do a bruising for a fee. “But I’ve a fair idea who’s responsible.”

Richards frowned at him, worried.

“This can’t escalate, Tom.” He murmured. 

“Oh don’t worry.” Tom’s eyes were cold and hard. “If there’s any violence it won’t start with me.”

The medical team arrived, accompanied by two senior guards, and got to work. One of the guards flicked his eyes between Tom and Richards - there was suspicion there - then ordered Tom to stand right back, away against the wall.

“What happened, Hiddleston?” He asked, frowning.

“I was coming in for a shower.” Tom indicated his towel and wash bag. “I saw Hemsworth on the floor. I asked Zabat – “ he meant Dave. “ – to get a guard.”

“Zabat was coming in to the shower with you?” His suspicion was irritating: behind them the medical team were working quietly. Tom, distracted, forced his attention back to his interrogator. 

“He was passing. I grabbed him. As in, I was heading out of here to get help, and saw Zabat.”

“And you nobly decided to come back in and guard your cell mate? How sweet.” 

“Yes. I didn’t want to leave him alone.” Tom was going to wipe that sneer off the guard’s face with a razor blade. “In case whoever did this was planning on coming back to finish the job.”

“Show me your hands.” The guard ordered, looking for evidence of a fight. Tom stared straight at him: his hands were unmarked. “Right. You’re going to have make a statement. Stay in your cell.”

Tom picked up his wash gear and left, not looking at Richards, or Chris.

Biggsy was still standing unobtrusively to the side of the wash room entrance.

“See if you can get hold of Dave, please.” Tom murmured to him as he passed: he was going to have to have a quick word with the boy, to coordinate their stories. 

 

Dave had been fetched, quickly updated, then set loose again before the guards came looking for him. Arthur was silent and furious, sitting stiffly on Tom’s bed: he genuinely liked big softy Chris and was outraged that someone would hurt him. Rocco was off to the side, sitting on Chris’ bed and listening attentively. Biggsy was scowling, leaning against Tom’s cupboard with his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Are we gonna stomp ‘im?” Biggsy asked: there was no need to confirm who he was talking about. 

“No, we’re not. No direct violence.” Tom’s grin was that of a shark. “We’re going to starve him. We don’t sell to him, or anyone connected with him. Anyone caught buying on his behalf, or on behalf of anyone connected with him, gets cut off.”

Arthur swore quietly.

“That’s goin’ to make things a bit lively.”

“If the junkies go in to meltdown and start some shit they’re not going to blame me.” Tom’s rage had been released, but it was cold now, calculating. “They’ll know why the supply’s dried up, and who’s fault that is.”

“Someone could still spill about where their gear comes from though?” Rocco chimed in. 

“Won’t make any difference.” Tom shrugged. “Guards have never found anything yet.”

He dismissed his team so they could put the word about, then sat in silent agitation waiting for the summons from the Governor.

Rattray – and Tom was one hundred percent sure he was behind Chris’ attack – was in for a world of self-inflicted trouble.

~~~oOo~~~

Chris woke up to the horribly familiar brain fuzz of heavy sedation.

“You’re in the hospital wing, Chris.” Jamie. The Scottish nurse’ soothing burr sounded near his ear. “Do you remember anything?”

Chris shook his head, wincing at the tearing sensation. He didn’t remember anything after leaving Tom.

“Looks like you got in to a fight. We’ve done the basic x-rays here, and now we’re waiting for a Healer from the Institute to examine you, okay? See if you need any further tests...”

Chris had a brief flare of concern: there were very few people who knew about his re-emerging abilities and if this Institute Healer wasn’t one of them...

He must’ve fallen back asleep because the next thing he knew he could hear someone talking nearby.

“Dr Tucker. Thank you for coming in.”

Oh thank god. Tucker was one of those who knew Chris’ secrets. 

“As you can see - ” there was the rustle of stiff plastic, the snapping sound of metal switches, and a small glow of light through Chris’ eyelids. “ – there’s possibly a hairline fracture on his rib - ”

A quiet noise of assent. 

“ – and another, possibly, here.”

“Ah, yes. Any indications of soft tissue damage? Internal bleeding?”

“Not that’s shown up on these, and his vitals are stable, pupils are reacting normally. The bruising is extensive though.”

A heavy sigh.

“I can see from here. Righty-o, I’ll have a look. Do you want to sit in, Dr Frobisher? This could take some time.”

“No, thank you, I’ve got half a dozen other things to do unfortunately. I’ll ask Jamie to step in, if that’s all right? He can take notes.”

“That will be fine.” 

Chris heard footsteps approach, the scrape of a chair being dragged closer to his bed. A broad and warm hand took his. 

:: Chris? are you awake?

:: ... Horrie, hi. sort of...

:: just relax now

“Ah, Jamie? Excellent. I’ll report verbally as I go, all right?”

“I am ready and waiting, Dr Tucker.”

“Good lad.” A rich chuckle, then. “Hello there, Chris. Are you with us?” :: feel free to pretend you’re not:: “Not entirely? That’s all right. It won’t hinder the examination.”

Chris welcomed the tranquillity coming over him: he’d always felt safe in Horrie Tucker’s presence, right from the start when he was a scared and angry child.

:: all right there, Chris?:: 

:: been better

:: I’m just going to have a wee look about. what do you remember?

:: was talking to Tom. left the cell to have a shower, I think... that’s it

:: no matter. the memories might return later

Tucker was silent, save for the occasional verbalisation to Jamie. The characteristic mental hum that indicated he was ::working calmed Chris’ mind.

:: the fracture on your rib isn’t bad, it won't need strapping. the one on your right zygomatic bone – your cheek – is also not bad, but your jaw’s fractionally out of alignment on that side. I’ll fix that before I go

He relayed as much to the nurse.

:: you won’t need an MRI but I’d like to keep you under observation here for a couple of days, all right?:: he paused, and Chris could almost taste his curiosity. :: that’s new. were you aware there’s another bond in place?

Chris jolted. The Healer was aware of the familial bonds he had with Indie and Karl – connections Chris couldn’t feel anymore even though they remained in place – but one that was new to him? Was it the one Chris had with Tom? Had he not shut it down properly?

Tucker laid a placid hand on his shoulder, soothing him.

“Is he okay?” Jamie asked.

“He’s fine. Involuntary muscle spasm: happens sometimes when you’re poking around with ganglia.”

:: there was a recent one. I shut it down

:: hm. talk me through what happened

Chris told him about accidentally forming the bond, and how he hadn’t even realised until Perdy’d pointed it out, and then how he’d had to break it when Tom found out.

:: mind if I have a closer look?

Chris gave his assent, grateful that Horrie had asked instead of just barging in like Perdy had. Likewise, the healer’s ::touch caused him no distress, and it didn’t set his nerves on edge.

:: ah I think I see what’s happened. you shut it down but your Tom has gone and reformed another one from the anchor point he hosted

:: I can’t... I can’t sense it 

‘ _Your Tom_ ’: Chris wanted to cry.

:: it’s not very beefy, and the bloody hardware is blocking it from you

Tucker was well known for despising the limiters.

:: could he be aware of it? Tom?

:: couldn’t say without examining him. his perception may not be strong enough. you _need_ to talk to him

Cold resignation was pooling in Chris’ stomach.

:: yeah he might want this one shut down too 

:: well, possibly:: Tucker sounded surprised at the idea. :: but more significantly if you can’t sense him you can’t guide him. your natural aptitude and training will take you some of the way but as a psi trainer you’re currently severely handicapped

:: Perdy said what Tom had was ‘vestigial’

:: again I can’t say anything without examining him, but even if it was the tiniest smidge of ability, if it’s active he’ll still need help learning how to manage it. you know this:: Chris felt Tucker’s broad warm palm settle over his forehead. :: I’m going to sort your jaw out then you can go back to sleep don’t worry about Tom for the moment

“Jamie, would you mind giving me a hand with this bed? I need to stand behind Chris to adjust his jaw. Oh, and when we’re done could I have a word with Dr Frobisher, if it’s possible? Just to confirm findings, basically, and let her know that I or one of my juniors will be in each day while Chris is here...”


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo an update!  
> Woohoo and it's longer than usual!  
> Woohoo we've cracked the 50k mark!
> 
> Thanks for hanging about :)

The painkillers made Chris drowsy, fuzzy and disconnected but that was better than the body-wide, bone deep aches he experienced without them. Horrie – Dr Tucker - had said he hadn’t taken too much damage, and rationally Chris didn’t doubt his diagnosis, but it bloody _felt_ like he’d been kicked to Sunday and back. It was so much easier to just sleep. 

It was easy to lose track of time, too. There was no clock in the room, none that could be seen through the windows, and he didn’t have a watch. According to Nurse Josie though, right now, as she helped him sit up, it was 10.30am, two days after he’d been attacked. He still didn’t remember what’d happened.

Horrie’d been able to come in and see him again yesterday but had said it would likely be one of his juniors visiting today. Chris trusted the Healer would send someone who knew what was going on with him. He had more than enough secrets now that he didn’t want to share with anyone else.

“You’ve got a visitor.” Josie said brightly. “Would you like to see them?”

“Who is it?” Chris was hoping it was Tom.

“Your sister.”

He tried not to be too disappointed but he was restless in his skin with wanting to see Tom again, to touch him, to _connect_. Chris was resigned to the fact that Tom was probably going to demand this new bond be shut down as well but, that didn’t stop him hoping, did it? 

“Yes, thanks.”

“I’ll get her for you. You understand there’s going to be a guard outside the door?” Chris nodded: no true privacy of course, but not much worse than the Visits Hall. The nurse patted him on the arm. “We’ll go through your breathing exercises after the visit, okay?”

“Yay.” He deadpanned and she grinned.

 

“Oh, Chris...!” 

Indie stopped dead in the doorway, horrified. After a moment’s hesitation she hurried over and gently kissed his forehead.

“It looks worse than it is.” Chris assured her. It did look bad but at least the swelling had gone down enough he could see out of his right eye now. 

“Not according to Dr Tucker.” Indie turned to thank Josie, who dimpled a smile and swished out. Was the nurse blushing?

The door was open, the guard standing outside. Indie pulled a chair over.

“They weren’t going to let me visit.” She huffed, though quietly. “I almost had to threaten my ambassadorial status.” She took his hand. :: all right what happened?

“I got beaten up.”

“Why?” She was frowning. “Was it because you’re a psi?”

“I don’t think it was that.” 

They were whispering.

“Then what?” She narrowed her eyes. :: is this something to do with Hiddleston?

“Possibly.” Chris knew there was no point trying to lie to her. “I might have been beaten up to get at Tom. I honestly don’t know!” He added hastily, seeing the metaphorical clouds gather over his sister’s head. “I’m only guessing. I don’t remember what happened and I don’t know who belted me but the investigators have been very cagey, and they’re asking me very leading questions about Tom. So...” He shrugged.

Indie had years of practice in masking her feelings but Chris had years of practice in seeing through all that. His foster sister was clearly hanging on to her temper by a strained thread.

“And why would hurting you get to him?”

:: he has enemies in here one of them saw us... he was just comforting me but it was misinterpreted

:: misinterpreted? really?

Chris squirmed.

“Please don’t.” :: it’s been really shit and we’ve only just started talking again

She took a deep breath.

“Any idea when you’ll be released from here?” :: ChrisChrisChris why won’t you accept that Hiddleston is bad news?

“Dr Tucker said possibly tomorrow, depending on how I am today.” :: it’s really none of your business

“That’s good.” :: it is if I have to pick up after you again

He scowled.

:: it’s fine I’m fine everything is going to be fine

:: you’re so stubborn

:: only when I know I’m right

Indie took another deep breath then pasted a smile on her face. It was about as convincing as a dog costume on a cat.

“Perdy is still agitating for you to stop the tranquilizers.”

Chris huffed.

“And the answer is still ‘ _no_ ’. Is it going to take a brick to the head before she understands?”

Indie snorted a giggle then composed herself.

“I’ll pass that on. The ‘no’, not the brick to the head suggestion.”

“Thanks.” :: has Elyse MacCrae been in touch?

:: she has

Indie was silent for several long moments.

:: and...?:: Chris prompted

:: I can’t say anything. at all:: she added at her brother’s pointed look. :: she is bloody good at what she does though. I want to recruit her 

:: is she safe?

:: mostly but she understands the risks

:: you didn’t convince her to give it up?

Indie smiled lopsidedly.

:: I doubt the gods themselves could convince Ms MacCrae to not do something she believes is right

:: but... the agreement?

Indie softly squeezed her brother’s hand.

:: _we_ haven’t broken it _we_ haven’t given her any information...

Chris wasn’t happy with that non-answer and would’ve pressed for more but Indie said she had to go. She kissed him gently again on the forehead. 

:: please stay out of trouble

:: I try I really do

They shared a smile and Indie’s fingertips lingered on his battered cheek for a moment before she stepped away. 

“Take care, big brother. Love you.”

He grinned, feeling the tight, painful pull in his facial muscles beneath the blanketing medication. 

“Love you too...”

It wasn’t until Indie had been gone for a few minutes that Chris realised she hadn’t said anything about Tom’s potentially re-evaluated psi status. Which meant that Horrie hadn’t blabbed – unlike Perdy, who obviously had. Hooray for professionalism and doctor-patient confidentiality.

Speaking of which...

Chris was surprised but definitely pleased when it was Dr Tucker who walked in after lunch accompanied by Nurse Josie, and not one of his threatened juniors. He found out why that was soon enough.

“How are you, Chris?” Horrie picked up his wrist, positioning his fingers to test Chris’ pulse. :: I thought it best to come in again myself. there’s a weird vibe building here and the officers are jumpy

:: what sort of vibe?

Horrie’s empathic skills had always been stronger, and more far reaching, than Chris’.

:: violence

Chris’ thoughts had immediately turned to Tom. He managed to keep his voice level despite the surge in adrenalin. 

“Much better, thanks, when can I leave?”

“We’ll discuss that in a moment...”

Chris could only shut up and let the doctor get on with his job, though it chafed at him.

“Right, I’m going to recommend you stay here tomorrow as well.” Horrie pronounced after the examination. He quirked an eyebrow at Chris’ grumble. “Don’t make me recommend an extra day on top of that.” :: you’re not in a fit state to defend yourself let alone him

And that was that; Chris had to stay put. Sure, he could discharge himself against medical advice – so very tempting – but Horrie was right. In his current state he’d be less of a help than a hindrance to Tom, and besides which, Tom wasn’t without protection anyway. More effective protection, if Chris was completely honest with himself, protection that hadn’t grown up avoiding fights and didn’t freeze in the face of overt aggression. 

Knowing he was doing the sensible thing did nothing however to stop his mood continuing to sour over the rest of the day. 

There was one bright spot though.

“Your cellmate’s been requesting to see you.” Jamie, the night nurse, confided as he administered his tranq boost that evening. “But it’s been refused.”

“Why?”

“I’m... not sure.”

Chris didn’t believe that for a second. 

“Really?” 

He felt no shame in deploying the _big-blue-eyes-of-diminished-resistance_ : a flush appeared high on Jamie’s cheeks.

“This is not official in any way.” The nurse murmured. “And you didn’t hear it from me, but apparently there’s been some restrictions on movement within the prison.”

“Right, thanks.” Chris smiled at him, warmly, beginning to feel a little bit of shame now at the manipulation as Jamie descended in to a full blush. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Ah, ‘tain’t nothin’.” The nurse joked, but he was grinning and avoiding eye contact, the picture of shy interest. 

He fetched the pain meds for Chris then said goodnight, still grinning: Chris resolved privately not to lead him on any more because it absolutely wasn’t fair.

He shifted around in the bed, trying to find a comfortable position for his damaged rib, and fell asleep wishing Horrie was one of those Healer psis who could accelerate someone’s healing.

~~~oOo~~~

_Fucking finally_...

Chris’d been good and followed the doctor’s orders. He’d stayed in the hospital wing for that extra day and night, mostly without complaint, and his reward was to be discharged after breakfast the following morning. Five days on from his beating he was still stiff and sore, and would be for a while yet. The damage to his rib would stop him from doing anything more than gentle exercise and stretching for the time being but at least it hadn’t needed to be strapped.

His fractured cheek was still very tender; the swelling was going to take time to go down. Between that and the frankly spectacular bruising on his face and torso he looked like he’d been hit by a bus. It could’ve been worse though: if a kick similar to the one that had cracked his cheek had landed on his left temple... If the limiter had been dislodged, or if the filaments wired in to his brain had broken...? It wasn’t the potential brain injury that scared him so much as how he could’ve been yanked out of here and taken back to the Institute. That would’ve been the end of... everything. 

Chris was given a replacement set of prison greys – the ones he’d been wearing the day he was attacked had probably been sent to the laundry – and they definitely weren’t the same quality as he’d become accustomed to wearing. There were very tangible benefits in being associated with The Captain. He had his regular shoes back though, his black trainers. It hurt too much to bend over so he settled for loosening the laces enough he could just slip his feet in. 

He had his bag of medication, enough to last ‘til his next appointment, tucked in to a pocket. He’d been given his instructions for self-care, and symptoms to watch out for, and a follow-up scheduled for three days time. Chris thanked the medical staff as he left, then he and his escort were buzzed out of the hospital wing. 

The walk back to his cell was more taxing than he would’ve thought, given the relatively short distance, but he held his head up and marched on. Horrie had been right though: Something Was Definitely Up. Even without his empathy Chris could sense the elevated tension; it was in the increased watchfulness of the guards escorting him, and in the quieter than usual ambient noise.

“Chris, my boy!” Old Arthur greeted him effusively – he and Rocco and Biggsy were in the cell with Tom – reaching up to pat him lightly on the shoulder. “How’re you doing, son?”

“Much better thanks, mate.” He smiled down at the old prisoner. “Missed me?”

“Every now and again.” Arthur winked. “When I needed something from a high shelf.”

“You look like shit.”

_Tom._

He was sitting on his bed, apparently relaxed but there was an intensity about his eyes and his shoulders were stiff. 

Chris was so happy and relieved to see him there was no chance of nonchalance. He couldn’t have played it cool if his life depended on it. If it wasn’t for the meds his face-splitting grin would’ve been painful. 

“I’d like to make myself sound tough by saying I’ve had worse but yeah, no.”

“And that pretty phiz.” Rocco shook his head slowly with mock regret. “ _So_ sad.”

“Probably ruined my chances in the Mr Prison UK Pageant, but there you go.”

“There’s always next year.” The corner of Biggsy’s mouth quirked up. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks...”

Rocco, Biggsy and Arthur excused themselves, leaving Chris alone with Tom. 

“How are you?” Tom asked softly, his gaze lingering over Chris’ visible bruises as he lowered himself to his bed with a stifled groan.

“Definitely been better.” He resisted the urge to lie down. “But the fractures didn’t need surgical fixation and the rest is just soft-tissue damage.”

“Jamie said as much.” Tom smirked, but there was an edge to it. “He’s really sweet on you.”

“I know. I try not to take advantage of it.” Chris gave up trying to be stalwart, but it was surprisingly hard to get comfortably vertical in a bed without handrails to hang on to. “Have I missed much?”

“Not really. Same old.” He pointed at Chris’ feet. “Do you want your shoes off?”

Chris chuckled, lightly so it wouldn’t hurt as much.

“Thanks, yes.”

The ::contact was soothing, comforting: Chris felt himself shed a layer of anxiety. He cast around mentally for a sign of Tom’s link but there was nothing. 

:: it’s... really good to have you back

:: I am very glad to be back:: he held Tom’s gaze and smiled. :: miss me?

:: yes

Tom’s eyes were huge in his face, mesmerising; Chris was hyper-aware of his long fingers curling around his ankle.

“Chris! You’re back!” Dave had skidded to a halt outside the cell. Tom withdrew his hand and stepped back, nodding for the boy to come in. “How you doing?” Dave studied Chris’ face with a frown. “You don’t look so good.”

Chris really didn’t want to talk to him _right now_ , and he really didn’t want Tom to be standing out of range like that, but he sat up and smiled as sincerely as he could.

“I’m getting better.”

“Dave came to get me, after he found you in the wash room.” Tom supplied.

“Oh, right. Thanks, man, I didn’t know that.” Chris smile was more genuine now. “Actually, I still don’t know what happened.” He confessed. “I don’t remember anything after leaving here.”

“Really?” Dave asked.

“Memory loss isn’t unusual after trauma.” Tom had sat down on his own bed: he leant forwards, elbows resting on his knees then addressed Chris. “This is what happened. You were attacked when you were alone in the wash room and there is no doubt you were attacked to get at me. The two fucktards who did it said as much when we caught up with them. What they wouldn’t say was who put them up to it.”

“But we know who’s behind it.” Dave was scowling.

“Rattray?” Chris hazarded. Both Tom and Dave nodded. “Are you, uh, doing anything about it? You’re not moving against him without proof though?”

“Oh, I’m not moving against him at all. Not directly.” Tom’s smile was chilly, unsettling. 

“But something is happening, isn’t it?” Chris pushed. 

“I want you to stay close.” Tom ignored his question. “For the time being you don’t go anywhere without an escort.”

“ _For fuck’s sake_...” 

Chris was all set to argue that he didn’t need protecting but a sudden flash of insight shut him right up. Out of all of Tom’s little group he was the most vulnerable, physically and emotionally, despite ostensibly being Tom’s bodyguard, and despite all the years he’d put in to making himself big enough to make people think twice about taking him on. Add to which Tom’s possible – probable – attachment to him made him the weak spot in the man’s armour. Chris almost groaned: he was the fucking princess in this scenario.

“Yeah, all right.” He acquiesced with a shallow sigh and was rewarded with an immediate lightening of Tom’s expression, a fond look that made him feel pleased and shy. 

_Senpai noticed me! Oh shut the fuck up_.

“You look like you could use a nap.” Tom observed.

Chris sighed again, deeply this time but carefully. 

“Wake me up for lunch.”

Taking the hint, Dave said goodbye and ambled off. Chris lay down again and closed his eyes; he didn’t flinch at the touch of Tom’s fingertips on the back of his hand.

:: you’re not weak Chris

:: but I am a weakness

:: you’re an improvement

:: on what?

He felt rather than heard Tom’s chuckle.

:: sleep now petal

:: you’re still a dick

:: undoubtedly... 

 

Chris had no choice but to take it easy for the rest of the day. He ate, he socialised a little, he took his meds and conscientiously performed his breathing exercises - the last thing he needed was to develop lung complications because it hurt to breath. Tom asked Rocco to go with him to the wash room when he wanted to shower, and that was a little weird, but it did make him feel safer, and oh, it was worth it to stand under the water again and let everything wash away.

The rest of the time he slept, and Tom was always close, as was the melancholy. Chris knew what he had to do and he was already mourning the loss of Tom’s friendship, again, his trust. It really wasn’t fair.

Finally it was lock-in and he and Tom were alone. 

:: how are you doing?

Tom was helping him with his shoes again.

:: all right. stupidly tired though. how can I be so tired when I’ve been sleeping so much already?

:: you’ve never been badly injured before? 

:: nothing worse than the occasional pulled muscle

:: your body is going to need rest to heal properly trust me I know:: Tom tilted his head to the side as he regarded Chris with a slight frown. :: is something bothering you?

It would be so easy to just say ‘nope’ and move on, wouldn’t it? But it wouldn’t be easy, in the long run, it would nigggle at him, this dishonourable lack of honesty, this _cowardice_.

:: remember... remember when you said you’d respect a decision of mine to keep something private but to never lie to you?

:: ...yes

:: and I said there was something private but it wasn’t relevant to you?

Tom nodded, face neutral: he’d taken his hand away from Chris, breaking the contact. Chris cleared his throat.

“Turns out you do need to know about it.” He hurried on. “I’ll try and explain. Please don’t interrupt?”

He told Tom as simply as he could, his voice lowered but urgent, about Perdy’s initial discovery of his latency and Horrie’s further revelations about a secondary bond. He kept his eyes on Tom’s face the whole time trying to read, anticipate his reactions but he was being presented with a perfect blank mask. Tom had, however, stood up and backed away to their door, the furthest he could get from him, physically. He was silent, staring down at a spot on the floor, the rapid rise and fall of his chest the only indication of his emotional state.

“... Tom?” Chris queried, dry-mouthed with anxiety. “Are you all right? It’s a lot to take in.”

“Thank you, no, I’m not all right.” The words were curt, the tone brittle. “I am... concerned that others can apparently get to me psionically through you.”

Chris doubted that that was all that was bothering Tom at the moment, but it was hardly surprising that a threat to his security and autonomy was uppermost. 

“It doesn’t work that way. It’s easier to try and infiltrate someone’s mind directly.” 

“And that’s _so_ much more reassuring, thanks.” He still hadn’t lifted his gaze from the floor. 

“I can help you learn how to shield properly.” Chris offered tentatively. “Or at least I can give you the theory and some exercises. I can’t sense you so I can’t actively monitor your progress.”

Tom was looking at him now, with an uncomfortable intensity.

“You can’t sense me? You can’t sense this... bond?”

“I can’t pick up anything that originates externally.”

The lights snapped off then, making Chris jump.

“Then, this really is coming from me this time?”

It was hard to pin down Tom’s tone: resignation, dismay, doubt?

“Yes.”

Tom was silent: Chris waited.

“Right now I have an intense desire to be physically close to you.” On the surface it sounded like a polite enquiry, the answer to which he was only mildly interested in. “Is that the bond?”

“It could be. It could also just be good old-fashioned attraction.” Chris was aiming for lightness. 

“No, it’s more than that. I’ve never... It has to be the bond influencing me.” Tom made a noise of frustration. “I can’t trust my emotions.”

Chris exhaled slowly.

“Look, I’m sorry, but I’m too tired to do anything right now. Tomorrow I can start working with you. Show you how to, to break the bond.”

“... You want me to break it?”

Chris was confused.

“I thought... you’d want to.”

“I don’t know _what_ I want.” That same frustrated noise. “I don’t know what’s possible.”

There was definitely a hint of panic now. 

“Tom?” He said, gentle. “Come here, please.”

He’d expected some resistance but Tom came over to him without hesitation. Chris reached up to touch his arm.

:: sit with me please

Tom sat, pressed close to his left, undamaged side: Chris turned enough that he could wrap his arms around him. His rib protested the movement but the pain was instantly of no importance when Tom sighed and relaxed, pressing his face to Chris’ neck. It occurred to the psi then that perhaps it was only here in the dark, with no one to see them, that Tom could let himself show vulnerability and accept being comforted.

Chris rested his cheek against Tom’s head. His hair growing back in to its curls was surprisingly soft.

:: whatever you want to do I will help you as much as I can

:: am I being overdramatic

:: no. on a scale of one-to-complete meltdown you seem to be taking it well

:: I’m really really not:: Tom’s arm curved around Chris’ waist at the back, his other hand came to rest lightly on his stomach. :: would it make things worse if I stayed with you tonight

Chris’ heart thumped happily at the thought but he went cautiously.

:: worse how?

Tom answered after a pause.

:: awkward with your rib

Chris was pretty sure that wasn’t what he’d been thinking about but he wasn’t going to press him on it.

:: if it is I’ll boot you back to your own bed

He had no intention of doing that, though. It didn’t matter if his damaged bones ended up feeling like they were on fire he wasn’t going to push Tom away, not right now. He may not be able to physically protect him but he could do this, he could provide emotional cushioning. 

:: sounds fair:: Tom untangled himself. “You get comfortable, I’ll get my pillow...”

Chris lay on his left side, as close to the wall as he could get. Tom slid in behind him, moulding his body to the psi’s.

:: is this okay?:: Tom had draped his arm over Chris’ waist.

:: that’s fine the damage is higher up

Tom sighed.

:: on the bright side this could be just the push needed to finally get my father to disown me

:: being psionic? even if it’s so low powered it barely registers?

:: I’ll play it up so it sounds more impressive than it is

:: but don’t make yourself too much of a threat, yeah?

Chris could feel Tom’s smile against the back of his neck.

:: don’t worry I have a lifetime of experience in knowing how far to push him:: Tom’s mouth moved against Chris’ skin again and if he was being optimistic Chris could say it almost felt like a kiss. :: shit I’m exhausted g’night petal

:: see you in the morning, dick

Tom's sleepy chuckle made Chris smile. Whatever further shit was thrown at him, at them, tomorrow right now was a perfect moment and he was happy.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not much progression of the plot - just the last bit of drama from Tom's pov.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good grief this took ages, I'm sorry. 
> 
> (Tom's fault, he was baulking at the _touch-feely_ stuff, the repressed little ratbag. _Co-operate with me_ \- I said - _And we can get through this bit and on to the sex, all right?_ )

“Are you absolutely sure, Dave? It’s sloppy and unprofessional to hit the wrong target.”

“I’m absolutely sure, Captain.” The boy’s mouth was set in a determined line. “I can clock ‘em for you, easily...”

It’d been a few hours since Chris had been taken to the hospital wing. Tom had spent a couple of those hours sequestered in one of the interview rooms being alternately interrogated and ignored by the investigating officers. He was anxious about Chris but had tightly controlled any outward expression of that anxiety, didn’t let it distract him in to saying something that contradicted his story. 

_He’d been going to have a shower – he’d found Hemsworth on the floor – he’d left the wash room intending to get help, had bumped in to Zabat and sent him instead, then went back in to the washroom to sit with Hemsworth until help arrived._

He ignored the insinuations thrown at him – which became blatant accusations as they tried to goad him in to a nice, neat confession – that he’d not only known what had happened, but had arranged it. Was it because Hemsworth was a psi? _Can’t trust pychers, eh, can you? Bastards get in your head..._ Was it because Hemsworth had tried it on with him? _Cheeky shit, thinks he can get away with that sort of thing just because he’s bigger than you..._

Tom’s contempt for the rank amateurism of Corrections personnel in general, and these two in particular, smouldered beneath the surface of his composure but he doggedly continued to answer the questions without deviation and they eventually had to let him go. 

He caught up with Dave shortly before the evening meal. The boy had also been interviewed but only long enough to confirm the events Tom had fabricated. That was when Dave had told him he could point out Chris’ assailants, that it was them hurrying out of the wash room corridor that’d alerted him that something was up. Tom hastily reined in the red-hot raging impulse to go and find those fuckers _right now_ but something must’ve shown on his face because Dave nodded grimly.

“They’re not going to get away with this, Captain.”

“Good. Thank you.” Tom squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “Tomorrow morning then, after breakfast, we’ll go for a little stroll...” 

Tom didn’t think it was his imagination that the clamour of the mess hall was less than usual that evening: everyone knew what had happened, and everyone was waiting to see what was going to happen next. Well they’d have to wait, wouldn’t they, because nothing was going to happen tonight, nothing was going to happen at all that would seem to be directly attributable to him. He was smarter than that.

Tom and his posse ate in silence, and he didn’t respond to the flagrant provocation of Rattray making sure he was in his line of sight and openly smirking at him during the meal.

After lock in, and continuing in to lights out, Tom sat motionless on the edge of his bed. Outwardly he was calm but inside his head the worry and anger and, and _fear_ whipped around each other in a shrieking frenzy. He clenched his jaw and twisted his fingers together: he needed to be logical, he needed to be practical. He was not going to lose control, even here in relative isolation. The storm would pass and he would be back in charge of himself. Then there would be retribution.

Eventually he lay down, and eventually he slept.

Tom snapped awake some time before the morning call and took a moment to examine his feelings. It was all still there, still raging, but at a distance; he’d be able to function. When he checked himself in the small, stainless steel mirror glued to the wall above the cell’s tiny sink he absently noted that this was the hardest, the coldest he’d looked in a long time. 

Dave was fidgety, snapping with energy at breakfast. He looked like he’d had a shit night too, the dark circles under his hazel eyes intensifying their colour. 

Smiling easily – all a lie – Tom quietly informed his men of the day’s agenda. Dave would lead him to the targets; Tom would go back later with Rocco and Biggsy and deal with them; the embargo on supplying Rattray _et al_ would continue.

“Once you’ve pointed them out to me,” Tom said to Dave as they set off for their hunt. “...you’re going to make yourself scarce.”

Dave started to frown, opened that pretty mouth to protest.

“No.” Tom was firm. “Chris wouldn’t want you to do anything to jeopardise your release.”

The boy heaved a sigh, shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down.

“Yeah, I suppose.” He mumbled.

“Good lad.” Tom clapped his hands together, business like. “Let’s go for a walk...”

Dave was smart, with excellent observational skills. It took them an hour of wandering around the various areas and levels but they found their marks. He’d pointed out the two men, easily identifiable bog-standard bruisers, then they’d wandered back to Tom’s cell. 

Dave took himself off without a word; Tom gathered some supplies, and Rocco and Biggsy, and set out again. With luck this would all be over before lunchtime. 

They found the first one on the next level down. He’d looked surprised at first, then he’d sneered.

“Whaddya think you’re gunna do, Captain?”

At a nod from Tom, the thug was bracketed by his boys then swiftly bundled sideways in to one of the cells. The cell’s occupant glanced at them in alarm then slunk out without a murmur, almost but not quite closing the door behind him.

Thug A struggled but his arms were pinioned tightly.

“’e never fought back, you know.” He gloated. “Easiest fucking job ever.”

Without a change in his expression Tom punched him, hard, in the stomach. Thug A gasped and his knees went out from beneath him, leaving him hanging there between Rocco and Biggsy. Tom stepped close and clamped his nose shut, forcing him to keep his mouth open. He placed a small, grey pill on Thug A’s tongue then before he could try to spit it out, Tom obliged him to keep his mouth shut by pressing up under his jaw with one hand, and down on the crown of his head with the other. 

“What’s that, boss?” Rocco asked conversationally.

“A quick-acting psychotropic.” Tom answered, watching the thug’s face closely for signs that the drug was being ingested. “It’d been a promising formula but never made it past the developmental stage. Testing showed that it had 70%-80% chance of producing a bad trip.” He smiled humourlessly down at Thug A. “A nightmare in pill form.”

“Ooh, nasty.” Biggsy dead-panned.

“There were detrimental physical affects too, uncontrolled vomiting, loss of bowel control, but no one died. The worst recorded was only kidney failure.” He released his grip on the thug’s head and stepped back, having seen his pupils dilate sharply. He patted a suddenly sweaty cheek almost gently. “But don’t worry, the medical team here is excellent.”

At Tom’s nod Rocco and Biggsy let go of Thug A; he dropped heavily to the ground, smacking his face in to the concrete.

They left the cell – Tom was pleased to see the original occupant was nowhere in sight – and continued the hunt.

Thug B was harder to corral but it was perversely more _fun_. He spotted them coming and did his best to avoid whatever it was he saw promised to him in Tom’s expression. They stalked him through the more populated areas where the CCTV coverage was best, but eventually ran him to ground in a quiet corner just outside the range of the security cameras. 

“It was just a job, Captain, nothing personal.” 

As if that would somehow impel Tom to take it easier on him.

“I don’t suppose you can tell me who hired you?”

“I can’t, you know that.”

“I understand.” Tom stepped close, very close. Rocco and Biggsy were tense, watching for Thug B to take a swing at their boss, but he didn’t move. “I know who it was.” Tom held up another grey pill. “Open up.”

Thug B’s eyes widened and it looked like he was going to resist.

“You’ll probably shit yourself but it’s not going to kill you.” Tom said. “ _Open_.”

Thug B did as commanded, though reluctantly. 

Tom watched him struggle not to swallow.

“It doesn’t matter if you swallow or not.” He shrugged. “It’s already reacting with your saliva. Better sit down.”

They waited another minute or so, watching impassively as Thug B started whimpering, reacting to the narcotic, then sauntered back to their own level.

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Tom said when they got back to his cell.

“What happens now?” Biggsy asked.

“Nothing.” Tom’s lips twitched. “But if you could keep an eye on Arthur, please? There’s a chance some disgruntled ex-customers might try to force the issue.”

Once alone again Tom washed his hands thoroughly then let the water run for a bit while he got changed in to clean clothes. He bundled up the stuff he’d been wearing, and a couple of other pieces of kit, then headed over to the laundry. If somehow the authorities took it in to the heads to test him and his clothes for traces of something to match what Thugs A and B had ingested, they wouldn’t find anything.

The day passed quietly with no alarms, no disturbances, nothing to indicate potential overdoses or medical emergencies. Tom mostly stuck to his cell, trying to keep himself occupied with reading and letter writing. His lieutenants took it in turns to stand watch outside: more than once Tom heard them turn someone away. 

The hours dragged by and no one official came by to pick up Chris’ belongings. Tom surmised that that meant Chris wasn’t dead, or so badly injured he’d been transferred. But that was all he knew. There’d been a moment though, late in the afternoon, when Tom had physically startled because he’d felt... something... inside... outside his head.

:: Chris?:: he quested in his mind. :: _Chris_?

There was no response, not that he’d really been expecting it, and wasn’t even sure that’s what it actually had been but still, the sensation had been uncanny and his fingertips were still tingling. 

“Okay, Captain?” Biggsy had stuck his head around the corner.

Tom half-smiled. 

“Just someone walking over my grave.”

Biggsy nodded sagely before withdrawing back to guard duty.

After the evening meal Tom approached one of his ‘special’ guards and requested permission to visit Chris in the Hospital Wing. 

“I’ll ask.” Hammond murmured. “But it probably won’t be allowed.”

Tom nodded understanding and graced the guard with a small, hard smile.

“Please try.”

That second night alone was easier than the first, but still hateful, and Tom had to acknowledge the irony. ‘ _Be careful what you wish for, you might get it_ ’ had been one of his mother’s favourite aphorisms. There’d been times during his incarceration he would’ve killed for solitude, but not under these circumstances. He didn’t want to be alone now; he wanted Chris there, within reach; he wanted them to be... friends; he wanted a really good whisky so he could wipe himself out. He wanted to cry.

Tom firmly strangled that line of thought, disgusted at himself, his weakness and sentimentality. He lay down, shut his eyes, and began to mentally work through the alphabetical list of Global currencies in current circulation. It was an excellent distraction technique and he fell asleep before he even got close to having to move on to the list of historic currencies. 

 

Two more days passed. A sullen tension was developing in the prison as the flow of ‘goods’ wound down. There’d already been fights, small, isolated incidents, between those who’d been cut off and those who continued to be supplied. Not everyone inside was a user, true, but the percentage was statistically high enough that trouble there would spill over in to the rest of the population. 

Sensing the unease, the prison authorities had ordered that movement be restricted: aside from meals and exercise, and _necessary_ visits to the Hospital Wing, prisoners were required to stay on their own levels, preferably in their own cells. This curtailing of a small freedom in an already constrained environment was a further aggravation. There was no official lock-down yet but the feeling was that it was on its way.

Tom sat above it all, apparently serene.

As expected he’d been rebuffed for a hospital visit but the Scottish nurse, Jamie, the one who fancied Chris, had got word to him about Chris’ condition. Cracked rib, cracked cheek, but no internal damage and the limiter hadn’t been disturbed. Tom was relieved: it could’ve been so much worse. He wondered, idly, if it had been worse, would the consequences have also been worse for Thugs A & B, let alone Rattray?

~~~oOo~~~

“You look like shit.”

Chris did, he really did, with his face bruised and swollen, and the obvious pain when he moved, but he was finally there in front of him and all Tom had to do was not fling himself at the beau- ... him.

He’d turned up in the middle of a strategy meeting, and while it was gratifying to witness the warmth with which Rocco, Biggsy and Arthur greeted Chris, Tom now just wanted them gone. They did go, after a bit of bantering, Biggsy leading the way, and then Tom had Chris all to himself. 

Just a hand on Chris’ ankle, for fucks sake, but the ::contact was so, so good, Tom could swear that something had snapped back in to place. Somehow the colours were brighter, his vision was clearer, his heart... Bloody hell his heart was going a mile a minute; he could feel the blood pulsing in his veins, in his cock... 

Though he initially resented Dave’s intrusion - _mightily_ resented it truth be told - it was probably just as well it’d happened as it gave him time to sit back, clear his head and take stock. What the fuck was going on? He’d missed Chris, sure, but to the extent he was willing to drop his guard like that? Tom wasn’t convinced that if they hadn’t been interrupted he wouldn’t have jumped him, broad daylight and open cell door be dammed! This was... distinctly out of character for him.

Chris was quiet all day. A large part of that was attributable to his injuries, of course, and the need to rest but there was something else going on. Tom thought he’d figured it out when he caught the psi’s flashes of guilt and shame when he finally conceded he needed protecting. 

Tom had told him, assured him he wasn’t weak but Chris had countered instead that he was a weakness. And bloody hell, didn’t that the hit the bloody nail on the head? He _was_ a weakness, he was Tom’s glaringly obvious weakness that he’d managed to wilfully ignore or deny until it was used against him. In the past Tom would have jettisoned such a weakness without a second thought. He certainly wouldn’t have felt deeply enough to want to avenge him.

Chris had wanted to know what he was an improvement on, but Tom had kept his silence because he couldn’t begin to articulate his thoughts there. Not really a surprise, but turned out he didn’t have an adequate emotional vocabulary.

The day went on though and it became clear that Tom’s clever deduction hadn’t been entirely accurate. There was something else dogging Chris, something that was leaving traces of sadness in his expression when he looked at Tom. 

:: is something bothering you?

Tom had waited for Chris to say something, but when nothing had been forthcoming by lock-in he’d   
taken the initiative. He almost wished he hadn’t.

_Psionic. Latent. Bond._

And in answer to Chris’ careful enquiry, no, Tom was fucking not _all right_. It felt like there was so much information and speculation and, and stuff piling up in his brain like a log jam he’d never be able pick it apart. It didn’t help that his heart had started racing with the adrenaline surge, or that his pulse was sounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear anything else. 

He struggled to get his breathing under control. 

_Thinkthinkthink. One thing at a time._

Chris had dispelled his immediate concern about psychers being able to infiltrate him via Chris himself, but then had come the bombshell that because of the limiter he couldn’t even sense this bond. It had forced Tom to confront the idea that, yeah, maybe this wasn’t bullshit? Maybe he _did_....

That would explain the irrational compulsions that he was experiencing, wouldn’t it? It would mean this _need_ to be close to Chris wasn’t a lapse in his self-discipline, it was merely a by-product of something over which he had no control yet. Tom rejected out of hand Chris’ suggestion that it was maybe just attraction, because he had never been this deep in with someone before no matter how much he’d wanted to fuck them, so naturally it had to be something else, something extra. 

It was like a punch to the throat when Chris said he could help Tom shut down the bond. Tom was momentarily bewildered then angry that Chris wanted him to do that – an anger that was completely irrational given his reaction to the last bond – but, no, Chris had only proposed it because he thought it would be what Tom wanted to do. 

Did he, though? Tom couldn’t think clearly enough to make a decision either way. Chris had called him over then, softly, gently. 

Tom had gone without a second thought, had given in to the craving for proximity and comfort by pressing in close. And just like that, the spiralling circle of jagged half-formed thoughts and justifications stuttered out and he was calm. Chris promised he’d help him with whatever he wanted to do and the relief Tom felt at not having to make a decision right at that moment was almost embarrassing. 

It was obvious that Chris was exhausted but Tom couldn’t bear the thought of going to his own bed and being separate. He felt selfish and oddly vulnerable asking if he could stay, but of course Chris said yes. 

Tom moulded himself to the psi so there was as much of them touching as possible. He slid an arm over his waist, mindful of the damage to his rib, and shamelessly snuggled in. With calm came clarity: if he was psionic, even a little bit, it would really piss off his father. Tom wanted to be in the same room, to see his expression, if he was ever told.

Tomorrow. He’d think about all this tomorrow.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which interpersonal progress is made, but not a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, yes, sorry for the delay (not _quite_ a month since the last update). Longest chapter so far though?

Tom eased out of sleep feeling... content.

He was still pressed close to Chris, still had an arm draped loosely over the psi’s waist. He exhaled softly in to the back of Chris’ neck, just at the edge of his t-shirt, and smiled. He wouldn’t mind staying like this for a while longer yet, but his back was beginning to protest and he had to use the loo.

It wasn’t long past dawn – he estimated they had about twenty minutes before morning call – and the cell was murky in the half-dark. Tom sat, wincing as always as his arse made contact with the cold stainless steel of the toilet. He left his bowels to get on with it while he contemplated his sleeping cell mate. 

Tom had always had a fractious relationship with the idea of love, right from the start when someone – one of his grandmothers he thought, he’d been very small – had piously lectured him about how you _had_ to love your family, as if it was an immutable law of nature. It was bollocks, of course; he could say categorically that he’d never loved his father and while he’d loved his mum he never took that love seriously tempered as it was with his abhorrence of her weaknesses. His sister though? He’d realised he wasn’t just fond of Flisty when it dawned on him that he’d do anything for her and _not expect anything in return_. He’d scoffed at the notion of unconditional love for years – there were _always_ conditions – but what he felt for his baby sister was deep, and strong, and the closest thing to being selfless he’d thought he’d ever get.

As for the rest... He was fond of Tad, and Elyse, and even Old Arthur, but there was always that balance sheet in his mind, toting up favours given and owed, calculating the effort required to keep them on side. He liked Harry and Tim, his chemists, but they were friends only in the loosest sense of the word, even factoring in the very casual sex he’d had with Tim. And now there was Chris, and Tom wasn’t sure what to make of how he felt. He’d been in lust before, many times, he’d been infatuated and obsessed, but this... wasn’t that. 

Not really knowing what he was doing, and feeling a bit ridiculous because of it, Tom :: groped around blindly for evidence of that odd pulling sensation he’d experienced in relation to Chris, that need to be close. He startled noticeably when he suddenly found it, like he’d turned a corner and tripped over something lurking outside his peripheral vision. He couldn’t quite seem to focus on it but it was definitely there and... muted? No, not muted, Tom realised, satiated. He poked at it, mentally: was this going to be a liability? Probably. 

Chris was stirring, shifting his legs and sighing noisily like he always did just before waking. Tom finished up, flushed the toilet, washed his hands. He made sure Chris’ med were handy on the small table between their beds, as was a bottle of water, then – after a moment’s hesitation – squeezed back in to bed with the psi.

Chris twitched slightly and :: mumbled a greeting of sorts.

:: morning petal :: Tom resisted the urge to kiss his shoulder. :: you need to take your tablet :: Chris murmured something that sounded like assent. :: then you need to do your breathing

:: nooooo

:: yessssss :: Tom was grinning now. :: you’re not getting pneumonia and being carted off to the medics while I have any say in it

As physically close as he was, Tom could feel the change in Chris’ body as he woke up fully. 

:: stop being sensible at me first thing in the morning

:: you know I’m right

:: don’t have to be smug about it :: but there was a smile implied. :: sorry, I have to move

Tom slid out of bed and stood to the side while Chris gingerly shifted to lie on his back. Not an ideal position in which to take a pill and a swallow of water but Chris managed anyway when Tom passed them over. He handed back the bottle then looked expectantly up at Tom. 

“We don’t have to get up until they tell us to.”

There was even less room in the bed with Chris flat out like that but - still feeling shamefully vulnerable - Tom was in no mood to deny himself. Once he’d eased back in, tucked himself under a beefy arm and wriggled as close as possible to the psi, being mindful of his rib, he’d managed to settle on his side with only half his arse hanging over the edge. He was aware of the sliding peephole in the door, and how this might look to a guard checking in on them, but fuck it. 

Chris’ arm tightened gently around his shoulders.

:: how are you?

:: all right I think :: He was concentrating on smoothing out a wrinkle in Chris’ thin t-shirt, very conscious of the heat rising up from the psi’s skin. :: sorry about the hysterics last night

:: it was a shock

Tom hummed noncommittally. 

:: I’m not sure I took that much onboard I’d like to make some clarifications 

:: sure

:: the neurobiologist – 

:: Perdy. Professor Almay

:: she discovered your bond with me had an anchor at my end and said I was :: Tom swallowed. :: a latent psionic

:: yes

:: and then later your doctor – 

:: Horrie Tucker 

:: - found that I’d initiated a bond with you. did he say I was latent as well

:: he said he couldn’t say for sure without examining you but the fact this bond originated with you indicates you’re active. even if only just barely. you really should be assessed

:: legal requirement :: Tom was familiar with some of the legislation regarding psionics. 

:: believe it or not being legally required to assess a potential psionic is the least of _our_ reasons for doing it :: Chris’ arm squeezed around him again: it was very comforting. :: an untrained psi is a danger to themselves and others. it’s vital they learn to manage their abilities

Tom nodded, he could understand that: there’d always been horror stories, factually corroborated or not, about rogue psis reading peoples’ minds or forcing them in to ‘unnatural acts’. The titillating stories were always the most eagerly received.

:: wouldn’t getting someone in to see me raise questions about you 

Chris was quiet for a moment.

:: it can be done remotely, and discreetly. there’s only five people that know about my special circumstances :: he indicated vaguely the disk of metal in his temple. :: and one of them is a Diviner. I’ll have to check with Indie but I reckon she’s strong enough to link to Isla – who’s in Canada at the moment, I think – and patch her through to you

:: your sister can find me?

:: you’re in a specific location it wouldn’t be hard, and you’re with me. she won’t be able to link to me but she can still find me easily enough

:: right :: Tom’s heart rate was picking up unpleasantly. This sounded... invasive.

:: and once you’re linked with Isla Indie will step back. she’ll still have to power the link ‘cause Isla doesn’t have that sort of wattage, but she won’t witness any of the assessment

:: that’s very noble of her :: it came out sharp, snappish.

:: as an adult you have a legal right to privacy, only minors need a witness. Isla’s findings will go on record but the assessment itself will be closed

:: what if I want you there... for moral support :: Tom tried to pass it off as a joke but suspected he’d failed and that his unease was shining on through.

:: could be challenging given my restraints but I can be :: Chris pressed his cheek to the top of Tom’s head. :: are you sure? it’s a very intimate process

:: intimate how :: And now Tom’s palms were sweating. Oh great.

:: the Diviners don’t go in to your memories or anything like that but they go to the heart of you :: Chris sighed. :: I don’t know that I can explain it sorry

:: and I have to do this

:: legally yes. I won’t force you and I won’t report you but I couldn’t in conscience let you go on without it

:: so you’ll just nag me until I make the decision myself

Chris chuckled and Tom felt the impression of lips against his hair.

:: the risks to you are too great. if you turn out to be psionic, even really low-powered, or even just a sensitive, you need to know how to protect yourself and not mess anybody else up

The lights snapped on, making Tom jump: he was clearly still on edge. 

:: all right talk to your sister let’s get this over with :: Five minutes until their door unlocked and they were expected to troop out to breakfast. :: we should get up 

He went to move but Chris’ arm had tightened again around his shoulders.

:: I was serious about what I said last night. I’ll help you with whatever you decide to do

:: thanks :: Tom’s fingers brushed not at all accidentally over the psi’s nipple, eliciting a shiver and a prolonged moment of eye contact. :: I’m sure I will be able to find a way to repay you

 

Tom was dressed and ready, waiting by the door, though not in any hurry to discover what culinary delights awaited them in the mess hall. Seriously, the longer he was banged up the more pissed off he was getting with the food. He _could_ pull some strings, spend some capital and get real food brought in – a sudden craving for fresh strawberries flooded his mouth with saliva – but that would be going against the directive, and his own inclination, to ‘keep his head down’. He’d have to continue making do with the little luxuries available from the canteen. 

Chris was bending carefully to put on his shoes; it looked awkward and painful. Tom would’ve stepped in with assistance but he hadn’t been asked for help so he let him be. Chris finished the task and sat back up, slowly; he looked over at Tom and frowned a little. 

“Did you say you caught up with the guys that attacked me?”

“Yes.”

“And...?”

“They were dealt with.”

Chris looked worried.

“You didn’t...? They’re not... are they?”

“Dead? Shouldn’t think so.”

“What did you do to them?”

Tom inclined his head in mock thoughtfulness.

“You know what? I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want to tarnish your image of me being just a mischievous scamp.”

Chris blinked, then bellowed a laugh that Tom felt in his sternum.

“’ _Just a mischievous_...’” Chris was clutching his rib while still laughing. “Oh ow, _fuck_ that hurts. _Ow ow_.”

“That should sort out your breathing exercises.” Tom smirked, earning himself a rude hand gesture from his wincing, gasping cell mate. 

“So how do you see me then?” He asked once Chris’d got himself under control.

Palm pressed flat over his rib, the psi stalked him, actually stalked him, over the three paces that separated them. His expression was hard to interpret and Tom resisted the urge to shrink back as Chris braced himself against the door, a hand on either side of Tom’s shoulders. He was only two inches taller, how did he manage to loom like that? 

Chris leant in close and put his mouth to Tom’s ear. _Foolish_ – was Tom’s immediate thought - _leaving himself open like that to a punch to his damaged rib_... 

He forced himself to stop automatically calculating strategies, which actually wasn’t that difficult to do with Chris’ breath distractingly warm on his cheek, down his neck. 

“How do I see you...?” Chris murmured. 

There was no part of them touching at all and yet Tom half believed he could hear... something...

The door unlocked behind them with a sharp buzz and a metallic clang, disrupting his concentration. Chris pulled back a little, far enough that they could look at each other without going cross-eyed, but he didn’t release Tom from the cage of his arms. 

“Do you really want to know how I see you?” Chris said softly.

“After breakfast, perhaps.” Tom replied, mildly vexed but unsurprised at how breathless he sounded.

“Okay then.” Chris said, his gaze dropping to Tom’s mouth. “Later.”

~~~oOo~~~

Chris would’ve had to have been particularly thick to not notice how much more intrusive the guards’ presence was that morning, or how alert and watchful they all seemed to be.

:: all right, what’s going on?:: His foot was pressed against Tom’s beneath the table. :: something’s up what is it?

Tom grimaced at the soggy piece of bread in his hand. 

“How do they manage to stuff up toast? :: I’ve stopped supply to Rattray and associates

:: ‘supply’ as in...? :: Tom didn’t elaborate, merely took another half-hearted nibble at his breakfast. Chris pressed. :: why? 

:: he attacked you and therefore me he needs to learn there are consequences to actions

Chris frowned down at his cereal.

:: is there going to be violence?

:: probably

:: and you’re okay with this?

:: sometimes violence is the only thing that will get the point across

:: bullshit :: He moved his foot away from Tom’s, breaking their contact. His spoon clinked dully against the cheap china when he didn’t quite throw it down. “I’m done.” 

Chris stood up, still moving gingerly, and stalked out of the mess hall. There was anger in the set of his shoulders, and aggression in the angle of his head. The guards watched him closely.

Tom didn’t sigh and he didn’t leap up and go after him, which was precisely what he wanted to do because that intangible thread at the edge of his perception was stretching thinner and thinner the further away Chris moved and it was... distressing. He caught Biggsy’s look from across the table but his lieutenant broke eye contact before Tom could make anything of it. 

Tom made himself take his time finishing his miserable meal.

“Right.” He said, setting down his mug. “We’ll meet at Arthur’s in about...” He glanced at his watch. “Thirty minutes, if that’s convenient?”

Rocco and Biggsy nodded but Arthur winked, the cheeky old goat. Fortunately he had the good sense not to allude to ‘tiffs’ of any sort. Tom wasn’t sure how he would’ve handled it if he had.

 

Chris was standing in the middle of the cell, his back to the open door. His arms were crossed over his chest as he stared up at their tiny window set high in the wall. Through the reinforced glass Tom could just discern a smudge of cloud that was almost imperceptible against the washed-out sky.

“I hate that violence is in the DNA of this place.” Chris murmured.

Tom sat on his bed, positioning himself so he was in front of the psi.

“You’re not responsible for whatever’s going to happen.” 

“No?” Chris looked down at him, unhappiness clear in his face.

“No.” Tom insisted. “That’s on me.”

“But _because_ of me.”

“Because of _me_. If I wasn’t so obvious about...” Tom’s jaw clenched. “It’s my fault you were seen as an exploitable weakness.”

Chris blinked.

“I don’t understand.”

“In my previous life, before I was arrested, I was hardly discreet about my liaisons, with men or women. So coming here, with that reputation, I was confidently offered a lot of sex. A lot. And I accepted none of it, not even a hand job.” Tom lowered his voice. “You’re the first person I’ve shown any... interest in. Ergo, it’s my fault you were targeted.” He stopped Chris before he could speak. “Don’t you dare fucking apologise.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The psi muttered, mouth quirking up in to a small smile. He relaxed, visibly, then dropped to sit beside Tom, pressing their thighs together.

:: no sex at all?

:: I’m promiscuous not stupid didn’t trust the health status of any of them plus it was all about currying favour and forming alliances wasn’t going to do that until I’d scouted the terrain

Chris was quiet.

:: you can’t stop me feeling some responsibility 

:: no but I will actively discourage it

The psi breathed out slowly.

:: what do you think is going to happen?

:: worst case scenario:: Tom was blunt. :: full-scale riot

:: could that really happen? :: Chris asked, appalled.

:: this place is a tinderbox already won’t take much to set it off

:: but... people can die in riots

:: it’s not your fault if they do :: Tom was frowning. :: the powers-that-be know something is brewing they’re watching for it and they’ll be ready to act quickly if it happens

Chris’ eyes were wide, staring at him.

:: you really don’t understand why this is bothering me do you?

:: clearly not 

:: and if I’d asked you not to do anything in the first place? or if I asked you now to put a stop to it?

:: mediation conciliation ‘talking things through’ does not work with cunts like Rattray :: Impatience was bleeding through in Tom’s tone. :: if I hadn’t responded to his attack on you he would’ve seen that as a sign of weakness and gone on to do worse trust me on this

:: worse how?

:: he wouldn’t stop at having you kicked unconscious and I will not cannot let that happen

Tom’s hands were balled in to tight fists on his knees and he was breathing shallowly and rapidly from the top of his chest. Chris had witnessed, and experienced, enough fear responses and panic attacks to hazard a guess at what was happening. He increased the pressure of his thigh against Tom’s, intending to ground him. It was all he _could_ do, given Tom’s likely response to being insistently cuddled potentially in full view of the other inmates.

:: you’re all right I’m all right :: Chris leant in with his shoulder for good measure. :: we’re not in any danger

:: the fuck do you know? :: Tom growled, but he was making an effort to breath normally now and deliberately relaxing his hands. He stretched his fingers out, flexing and curling them smoothly, rhythmically. Chris caught himself musing distractedly on just how long Tom’s fingers were. He licked his lips and sat up straight again.

:: you’re right I don’t have a clue and I don’t really want one :: He looked down at his own broad fingers and untidy nails. :: violence, the threat of it... I don’t deal very well with it

:: there’s no shame in that :: It was Tom’s turn to lean in. :: I used to think there was but I was an idiot

:: what changed your mind?

:: getting out of an enclosed hyper-masculine environment and in to the real world

:: the army?

:: exclusive boys-only boarding school :: Tom smirked, but his eyes were distant. :: you wouldn’t believe the elitist shit that’s peddled there

:: oh I think I would. us lefties have been railing against that sort of thing for years :: Chris relaxed a little. :: are you okay?

:: unassailable :: Tom stood up. “I have business to attend to. Will you be all right?” 

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. What could possibly go wrong?” Chris shrugged as he mustered a smile.

“Let’s not get in to that. Stay in here, or nearby, as much as possible.” Tom strode out of the cell only to stick his head back in a split second later. “And do your breathing exercises.”

“Jeez, okay, _Mum_.”

Tom’s chuckle, low and throaty, prompted a small blossom of heat deep in Chris’ belly.

“Well, if you’re the daddy...” And then he was gone.

_Dammit_. Feeling fidgety with what he was unwilling to acknowledge as arousal, Chris fell back in to his habit of physical activity as distraction. He could tidy up? Prison regulations said that beds had to be made before inmates were let out of the cells for breakfast but there was still - Chris looked around – no, there was nothing to do. Tom liked to keep things orderly and there wasn’t that much stuff in here to begin with. He huffed, shallowly: better get on with the bloody exercises then.

Chris stood up, closed his eyes, relaxed and squared his shoulders as he’d been instructed. He breathed in slowly, concentrating on filling then emptying his lungs, breathing from the stomach, not the shoulders; but no matter how hard he tried to concentrate solely on his body he couldn’t completely distract himself from his thoughts. Tom was a tease and a flirt, no doubt, but only when they were alone. Had he always been private like that? Was the need to be visibly in control stronger than any desire for open affection, for... playfulness? Chris had initially resisted the very obvious invitation Tom was offering because he’d been scared of being used and discarded, getting hurt, but he was resisting now because, he suspected, Tom was even more emotionally vulnerable than he was. Repressing yourself, locking everything up tight, for whatever reason, wasn’t a healthy way to live, but they were on the brink of something - 

“Psst. _Hemsworth_.”

Chris blinked out of the contemplative half-daze he’d fallen in to and turned to look at the figure slouching in the doorway. It was... he couldn’t remember his name, the spotty kid Dave used to hang out with.

“Yes?”

“Dave’s asking for you. Come with me.”

Chris almost moved, and normally he would have, but something was off with this guy. Hadn’t he been cosying up to Rattray recently? 

“It’s serious, man, he’s really in trouble. He really needs your help!”

Chris’ hesitation had forced him – Beckers, that was his name - to overplay it: the sweat was visible on his upper lip even at this distance. Chris said nothing, just stared him down while ignoring the tiny, trusting twinge of conscience that was whispering _what if he’s telling the truth_? If he was he’d make it up to Dave later but right now he wasn’t going anywhere alone with someone who was friendly with the guy who’d had him beaten up. 

“ _Shit_.” Beckers spat, and Chris noticed the tremors in his hands. “Well it’s your fault if he fucking _dies_.”

He slunk off, shoulders hunched, and Chris drew in a shuddering breath. What was going on? He should go and find Tom he needed to know about this, but, faced with this new threat and uncertainty, Chris couldn’t move.

Rocco appeared suddenly in the doorway, making him twitch.

“Reporting for guard du- you okay?” He asked, the fine scars on his forehead crinkling as his eyebrows rose in concern.

“Have you seen Dave since breakfast?”

“Yeah, I just left him in Arthur’s cell with the others.” Rocco frowned. “What’s up?”

Chris explained what’d just happened, half-hoping Rocco would tell him it was just his imagination. 

“Somebody needs to take that fucker down.” Rocco snarled. “The boss definitely needs to know about this...”

 

Chris didn’t relax fully until the cell door locked that evening. Tom had been coldly furious over the ploy to get Chris on his own.

“Rattray’s just trying it on.” Was Arthur’s summation. “Don’t be goaded in to going after him yourself.”

“I know, I know.” Tom had fumed. “But this is going to have to come to a head soon.”

Chris hadn’t missed the darkly significant look Tom had given his lieutenants; he didn’t like to think what it could signify.

“Is Dave in any danger?” Chris asked.

“Mm, probably not.” Tom had replied. “But I’ve asked him to stick close to Dorney...”

After the evening meal Chris had been escorted by two officers to the Hospital wing for his tranq boost. He suspected Tom’s hand in the extra security, which was confirmed when he noticed Biggsy was also shadowing them. He appreciated it, really, but he didn’t actually feel safer. 

“I think it would be a good idea if you were transferred out of here.” Tom didn’t look at him as he got changed in to his sleeping gear.

“Nope. Not going anywhere.” Chris eased himself in to bed, lying flat but close to the wall. “There’s nowhere else I can go that won’t cause added complications.” Which was perfectly true, and Tom had to realise it. “And I’m not leaving you.”

He heard Tom’s indrawn breath, and looked up at him to see... He’d never seen The Captain look so unsure before, not in public, not in private.

“I’m not leaving you.” Chris repeated softly. He lifted the sheets, indicating the emptyish space beside him. “Come on. I can’t start your training if you’re in the other bed.”

Well, technically he could, they only needed to touch fingers but that wasn’t what Chris _wanted_. Tom climbed in beside him, without even the pretence of hesitation, and settled on his side as close to Chris as he could get. 

_Warmth comfort edges aligning_... 

Chris smiled and held Tom’s hand loosely against his stomach.

:: Right. Slowly now, show me the shielding techniques you were taught...


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously: Chris has finally told Tom about the new bond that's formed between them, originating with Tom this time, and the suspicion that he's a latent psionic. Tom doesn't take it well but agrees with Chris that he might just possibly need an assessment. In the meantime, the tension within the prison escalates, fueled by Tom's rivalry with Rattray*
> 
> (*good grief, I had to look up his name! Is that my memory deteriorating, or just because I haven't been near this for so long?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahaha so here's the thing... apologies for the lack of updates but r/l got kind of interesting, including having my computer kark it and then having to wait weeks until I could afford another one.
> 
> So, here we are. An update. It's not the 10k one you deserve for waiting so long - and there's _still_ no smut - but it's an update.
> 
> Ahahah.

Tom woke with the sensation that his eyeballs were aching in their sockets and for a moment he couldn't fathom why.

_Oh yes_.

Chris had begun his 'training' by getting him to raise and lower his mental shields over and over and over and over. The object being - the psi had said - to get his shielding to a point where it was permanently erect ( _eheheh. Tom, really?_ ) and could be maintained with no thought or effort. They'd work on duration soon, but to start...

_Up._  
Down.  
Up.  
Down. 

It wasn't exciting but Tom understood the importance of repetition in mastering a task so he'd kept at it, even after Chris had succumbed to the tranquilizers, long before he himself was ready to sleep. As with everything he'd attempted, Tom was determined to get as good at this as possible, as quickly as possible. 

He'd felt the moment it became... easier, like a car that had been toiling up a hill finally switching in to the right gear; suddenly there was no effort.

_UpDownUpDownUpDown_

He allowed himself to feel pleased and a bit smug, before acknowledging that he was also, suddenly, bloody exhausted. Tom pondered the nature of this exhaustion - it wasn't physical, or mental as he'd previously experienced it but... He'd dropped off to sleep seemingly between blinks.

But now that he was awake. _Ow_. 

He wriggled over on to his back, conscious as always about his proximity to the edge of the bunk, and squeezed his eyes shut as tight as he could, until there were lights bursting and strobing behind his eyelids. He relaxed slowly, expecting a release of tension but it hadn't seemed to help, in fact the ache in his eyes extended now back in to his brain. Would regular painkillers even touch this? 

He raised his shields, and oh, that was uncomfortable. Not difficult, just similar to the reluctance of muscles to move the morning after a time-trialed long run up and down the Brecon Beacons, in summer, in full kit. 

He wondered about the wobble in his mental 'muscles', for want of a better word. Were they like physical muscles in that overworking them was detrimental to development? Did they need a recovery period? He'd ask Chris about it later but his instinct was to press on, so he did. 

_Up. [wince]_  
...  
Down. [wince]  
...  
Up. [wince]  
...  
Down. [wince]  
...  
Up - 

:: still practicing? that's the spirit

Chris' sleepy ::mumble interrupted Tom's concentration, making him lose his already slippery grip.

:: I'm trying to suck up to my teacher :: The smile he received was just-woken-up-dopey but blinding.

:: ok impress me

Tom smoothly slid his shields up, managing to hold them in place for a few seconds without showing evidence of the discomfort, before lowering them slowly and gently.

Chris frowned. :: again. please

Tom complied, though he was beginning to feel the strain: Chris was still frowning. 

:: definitely going to have to talk to my sister

:: oh...?

:: you're not using your shields like a standard even a highly trained one:: Chris shifted slightly, grimacing, over on to his injured side. He reached across to push Tom's hair back from his - now sweaty - forehead. :: what happened?

:: it just... clicked I've got a shitty headache though

:: sorry, should've warned you about that

The lights flickered on, the hard fluoro accentuating the dark circles under Chris' eyes, the healing bruises on his face. 

:: another day in paradise :: Tom sighed.

:: the path to paradise begins in hell

Tom grinned, stroking the back of Chris' hand where it lay on his chest. 

:: you're quoting Dante at me?

:: 'm not completely illiterate :: Chris licked his lips, watching Tom's mouth. :: not just a pretty face you know

Tom really hadn't wanted to move but he peeled himself away from his cell mate and got ready to face the day. He'd dressed, moving carefully but trying not to look like he was moving carefully, because a man had his pride after all. The trilling pain in his head hadn't increased but neither had it diminished. He gave up on being stoic and sat, crumpled on the edge of his bed, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

Chris' fingertips, warm and strong pressed in to his temples, blessedly relieving the pressure. Tom sighed and relaxed, his shoulders dropping. The discomfort was still there, but not as fierce.

:: thanks

:: it shouldn't last long. not once your brain gets used to it

:: said the actress to the bishop 

Chris snorted aloud.

:: from Dante to vaudeville?

:: such is my life 

Tom's exaggerated tragic tone made the psi snort again and it warmed his soul.

\---oOo---

The tension in the mess hall during breakfast seemed to suck the oxygen from the air. No one spoke, not the inmates, not the guards. 

Chris looked ill.

:: this is unbearable

:: it will break soon 

:: is that supposed to be reassuring 'cause it's really not 

:: just sit tight and keep your head down :: Tom stroked his foot minutely against Chris' where they habitually rested against each other. :: I'll look after you

For the second day in a row prisoners were ordered to go directly back to their cells after eating, and announcements had been made about the cancelling of some of the non-essential - as in not court-mandated - activities and group meetings. It still wasn't a full lockdown but it was walking a fine line, and edging closer. 

Back in their cell, Chris' fingers brushed Tom's wrist.

:: I'm going to make that call

A sense of foreboding prickled over Tom's scalp, localising on the bridge of his nose.

:: can it wait? :: He absently rubbed at the spot, frowning.

:: I want to get this done before everything shuts down. the sooner we can get you sorted the happier I'll be

Tom nodded, uncomfortable with letting Chris go but unable to muster a rational counter-argument. The psi's gaze flickered towards the door. 

:: that's if they let me

The corner of Tom's mouth lifted but the last thing he felt was humour.

:: good luck

He watched Chris amble casually out in to the corridor, automatically modifying his posture to show calm submission. Look at me, no threat to anyone at all... The compulsion to call him back, to make him stay here where he could keep an eye on him, rose up in Tom's throat, choking like vomit. He almost vocalised it, but by then Chris had turned the corner and was out of sight. 

 

Chris had been gone for eighteen minutes. Tom sat on his bed and tried to read, to still his agitation. Of course he was worried, it was natural to be worried, but Chris would be back any time now and he, Tom, could breath properly again. 

The acoustics in this old-fashioned prison building were execrable but sound traveled easily along the long corridors and between the floors, even if it was difficult to pinpoint direction. With the usual background clamour subdued due to current circumstances the sudden, distant explosion of aggression was shockingly obvious. 

Tom was on his feet and at the door before he knew he'd done it. 

:: Chris!

There was no way the psi could hear him. 

:: _Chris_!

Biggsy was there, appearing without warning.

"I'll find him, boss, you hang tight."

And then he was gone again, pelting off down the corridor before Tom could react. A split second later the alarm sounded, overlaid with the command for prisoners to get in their cells and close the door, anyone outside of the cells when they locked in thirty seconds would be considered hostile repeat repeat repeat.  
Tom silently fought with himself then gave in to practicality: there was nothing he could do that wasn't going to invite further trouble for him or Chris. Snarling a curse, he stepped back and closed the door. 

With his forehead pressed against the cold steel and palms splayed flat, the jolt of the lock snapping shut was more of a sensation than a noise. Tom waited, held in place by something he dimly understood was fear, but not for himself. He could hear above the continuing claxon the sound of running, of clipped orders. The guards were on the move. Reinforcements were probably being called.

Tom had no idea how long he stood there, fingertips clenched tight in to the door: would a psi, a telekinetic perhaps be able to shift the molecules out of the way and create a hole?

" _You two!_ " A bellowed enquiry, authoritative, from close by. " _What are you doing? On the floor! Now!_ "

A mumbled reply that Tom still recognised as Biggy.

" _Hemsworth, stand up_." Tom's breath stuttered in his throat. " _Richards, watch that one. Stay the fuck down, Biggs!_ " A pause, some shuffling. " _I'm getting you back in to your cell. You twitch the wrong way and you are toast, understand? **Understand?** Hands behind your head!_ "

Footsteps, a pair of them, out of sync, approaching his cell. Tom lowered his hands and stepped back from the door. He had no control over his facial expressions but he suspected he was wide-eyed and looking anything other than composed and in control. The viewing window slid open with a snap.

"Hiddleston! Back against the wall."

Tom moved backwards, carefully, not taking his eyes from the door; when he fetched up hard against the small table bolted to the wall between the beds he raised his hands again, palms out.

The guard spared him a glance then unlocked the door manually. It opened just enough to admit a body, and then Chris was there.

Tom held still until the door and viewing window where shut again then he jerked forward, but Chris was there before him, his arms like bands of iron around Tom's middle, his face pressing in to Tom's shoulder, gasping huge gulps of air.

:: shh shh it's okay I've got you

:: I was so scared :: Tom could barely ::hear him. :: I wanted to kill them all

Chris was trembling, wracking shudders shaking his broad frame. 

:: it's okay it's okay you're safe are you hurt?

:: I don't... I don't... my hands...

:: let me see?

But Chris only tightened his grip. Tom pressed himself closer, letting him feel the weight of his body. He turned his head enough to nuzzle in to the blond hair underneath his cheek. Chris was here, they were safe, Tom was back in control.

:: can you tell me what happened?

:: was coming back with the guards and we were jumped 

Tom had a horrible, enraging suspicion.

:: where?

:: by the g-guard station

:: they attacked the guards? 

:: I.. I don't know I just wanted to get away but they wouldn't let me I was hitting and hitting and hittingIjustwantedtogetaway

Tom stroked a hand down Chris' back: the psi was drenched in sweat.

:: you got away you're all right Biggsy found you? :: A nod, sharp and shaky. :: you're okay come and lie down

Chris was clearly unwilling to let go so Tom shuffled them over to Chris' bunk and somehow got them down, reversing their usual positions: his back against the wall so Chris' uninjured side was down on the mattress.

He felt a pressing need to check for injuries but that wasn't going to be possible until Chris had calmed down enough to let him go. He schooled himself to patience and hoped there was nothing broken.

Chris fell asleep immediately, not an unusual response, but Tom stayed wide awake with his churning thoughts and incipient anger. Had they been after Chris? Had the intent been to deal with him...?

Tom twitched out of a disturbing dream, disoriented to find he'd been asleep, to see Chris awake and watching him. He was still being held but the grip was relaxed.

:: how are you?

:: rational :: a mirthless twitch of the psi's lips. :: this is why I need the tranqs

:: no you need trauma counseling and therapy in conjunction with proper medical supervision not to be fucking shut down chemically and left to rot in here!

Chris' thick eyebrows raised at his vehemence. Tom took a deep breath.

:: let me see your hands

Tom got them up, got Chris over to the sink. After a gentle rinse under the tap, his hands were revealed to be less of a mess than they'd initially looked. Bloody, scraped, torn fingernails but no breaks.

:: can you remember what happened?

They were sitting side-by-side on Tom's bed. Chris frowned.

:: it's... hazy

:: sequence of events :: Tom prompted. :: how many attackers? did they go for the guards first?

If the guards had been the target the prison could be in lockdown for weeks, but he didn't think that was going to be the case. 

:: they came up from behind us. fast. the guards were pushed aside? I think? there were two of them on me then suddenly there were more people weighing in. it got confusing then

:: were you the target?

Chris twitched, his hands curling in to tight fists.

:: I was wasn't I? _shitshitshit_

Tom clamped down on his anger: how fucking _dare_ they.

:: you're all right you're safe :: he gripped Chris' wrist. :: we'll deal with this we'll sort it out but right now you're safe understand?

Chris nodded once, shaky, licked his dry lips.

:: soooooo this lockdown, eh? alone at last

Tom recognised the attempt at lightness and rewarded it with a wide smile while something... complicated unfurled in his chest. He'd used humour to defuse situations before, but not when he was as scared as Chris was now. Or rather- he was forced to acknowledge at last - something continued to unfurl: that little sprouting had been wriggling its way up in to his consciousness for quite some time.

:: alone at last :: Tom agreed

:: what happens now? with the lockdown?

:: well we're here for the duration :: Tom stretched his fingers out over the back of Chris' fist. The psi's hand relaxed under his. :: we'll be fed at regular intervals and depending on how busy the guards are we might be checked up on between times because the prison still has a duty of care to make sure no one's topped themselves or killed their cell mate

:: that would be awkward

:: yep and apparently the paperwork is excruciating

Chris fingers had uncurled and were lying flat on his thigh. Tom insinuated his fingers amongst Chris'. 

:: will it last long? :: The psi leaned ever so slightly against him.

:: as long as it takes to get everything back under control and for the authorities to feel the situation has been thoroughly defused 

Chris was glancing sideways at him, his smile crooked and somewhat shy.

:: we could be here for days

:: we could :: Tom waggled his eyebrows theatrically. :: however will we amuse ourselves?

Chris chuckled and looked down, and... was he blushing? Bloody hell that was adorable. Tom wanted to kiss him and touch him to make that blush spread, but now was not the time. Chris was fragile and he, Tom, was feeling overprotective. Neither of them were in a fit state for something that should be fun, and Tom was determined it _would_ be fun. 

Noise continued outside their cocoon of a cell, rising and falling but indeterminate and muffled. They slept, because they were both still wrung out with tension, pressed together on Chris' narrow bunk.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a rough morning, what with the riot and all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prison food in the UK is apparently much better than I'm giving it credit for. It's probably time to re-state that I'm largely fudging the details of their prison life to serve my own ends. But then, we're not necessarily here for the real-world accuracy?

The noise of lunch being delivered further down their corridor gave them enough warning to be awake, disentangled from each other and sitting sedately on their own beds by the time the viewing hatch slid open. They were ordered to stay seated, the door was unlocked then they were instructed to approach the trolley one at a time to collect their food. 

Four guards had been detailed for the distribution: one to wheel the cumbersome metal trolley and check their names off a list; one to hand out the food; and a twitchy, hard-eyed pair standing there glaring, taser and pepper spray at the ready. Tom murmured polite thanks but made no further attempt to engage. He wanted to know what was happening but now was not the time to ask. 

Lunch was two prepackaged sandwiches each - ham and cheese, chicken and salad - a bottle of water and a couple of pieces of fruit. Tom said they could reasonably expect to get something for afternoon tea, and they both still had items left over from their weekly canteen orders. They were more likely to die of boredom than starvation. 

Chris was fiddling with his water bottle, picking at the plastic label.

:: how are you doing? :: Tom asked, knocking their knees together under the tiny table. Chris lifted a shoulder but didn't look up. :: are you ready to talk?

:: about what? :: but the psi was already hunching forwards in defense.

:: oh I don't know this morning's little adventure? 

Chris did look up at him then, unhappiness bordering on truculence showing in the lines around his eyes. Tom's eyebrows lifted. 

:: you're going to be called in for an official chat sooner rather later it will help to have your story straight before that happens

:: I hate that just being honest isn't enough :: Chris stretched out his left hand flat on the table. Tom rested his fingers over Chris'. It wasn't quite like holding hands.

:: honesty has no place in the justice system it's all about positioning yourself in the best light for a favourable outcome 

:: yeah I guess :: Chris' sigh seemed to come from right deep down in his belly. :: okay let's get this over with...

The story they settled on was the truth, of course, but modified to downplay Chris' aggression and accentuate the speed at which the attack happened, and the resulting confusion. Tom advised him to keep it simple, don't speculate. If Chris wasn't clear on something, better to say he couldn't remember than get himself tangled up trying to fill in details. 

:: they'll have seen the security footage by now nothing we've discussed will contradict what's in that

Chris shuddered.

:: but I was fighting - 

:: you were trying to get away that was all you wanted to do :: Tom sat back and rolled his head slowly on his shoulders, dissipating the tension. :: time for a break you need to do your breathing don't think I haven't noticed in all the excitement

The psi half-smiled at that.

:: and when was the last time you did any stretching?

:: touche and when we've caught up on all that you can go back to bludgeoning my brain

The exercises, physical and mental took them through to afternoon tea; a hot drink - nominally coffee or tea - from an urn, a couple of packets of pre-packaged biscuits and more fruit. 

Tom sipped his tea, again feeling a little bit smug about how easy the shielding exercises continued to be. The headache wasn't so bad this time either. He probably shouldn't get too cocky about it though, it was bound to get worse.

:: will we be getting a hot meal tonight? :: Chris asked.

:: unless something's gone really wrong in the emergency planning procedures

Tom stood and stretched, trying to be subtle about the growing discomfort in his back: on a normal day he'd be moving about and the walking would help, but confined to the cell...

:: do you want a massage?

_Oh fuck, yes, please. It'd been days._

:: are your hands up to it?

Chris inspected his knuckles, flexed and curled his fingers a few times.

:: they're fine

It was wonderful. Under the warmth of Chris' palms, the unhesitating firmness of his touch, Tom could feel the tension melting out of his muscles and sliding off his bones. It was also, with Chris sitting astride his thighs and subtly shifting his weight back and forth as he worked, undeniably arousing. The low simmer of it settled in to Tom's belly like an old friend. 

Chris may have worked for twenty minutes, or an hour - Tom may have spaced out - but by the time Chris had finished off with the final flat sweeps down his spine Tom was at that tipping point of dreamy physical bliss: he could fuck or he could sleep. Either would be no trouble to engage in at all. 

:: good? 

Tom grunted in response and though he couldn't see the psi's face, he knew he was smiling.

:: I'm gonna nap now

:: excellent idea 

Chris gently squeezed the back of Tom's neck, making him go limp, well, limper than he was already, limp as a kitten, then the weight and warmth of the psi was gone from his legs, replaced with the more practical, much less sexy warmth of a blanket pulled all the way up to his shoulders...

 

Tom woke to find himself still on his stomach. He turned his head to the side and saw Chris curled up asleep on the other bed, facing him, his hands tucked under Tom's pillow. 

Tom let himself look, no need to be furtive right at this moment. The stubble was well and truly in, and the bruises were appalling but Chris was still... he must've been irresistible before, when he was healthy and whole, not beaten up and tired to his soul. But, if Tom had met him _before_ would he have tried to treat him like every one else he'd wanted to have sex with? A means to an end? Largely disposable? Would he have bothered to keep expending time and attention on Chris once he'd found out he had no interest in being fucked? But then, Chris with his abilities intact would probably have been able to spot a bastard like Tom and stay well out of reach. 

Chris stirred, sighing, and Tom preemptively smoothed out his frown. 

"Hey." Chris was smiling with those blue, blue eyes.

"Hey." Tom smiled back.

"Would you really have pimped me out? When I first came here?"

The question took Tom by surprise but he answered honestly.

"Absolutely. If you hadn't been so obviously disadvantaged and if I could've convinced you it was in your best interests."

Chris stretched out his arm; Tom linked their fingers together.

:: and now?

:: wouldn't consider it

:: no?

:: I'm a reformed man

:: I believe you

The funny thing was, Tom almost believed it himself.

 

Dinner was indeed a hot meal, but...

:: what budget airline's kitchen did they raid for this? :: Chris poked a plastic fork at his slices of brown protein. :: I was lead to believe this was beef

:: it probably is. on a molecular level :: Tom tapped Chris' shin with his foot. :: be a good boy and eat it all up then you may have some chocolate biscuits

:: instead of or in addition to the 'apple crumble with custard'?

:: you may have both

:: gosh thanks, nanny, then will you read me a story?

:: don't know about that but I'll certainly be happy to _tuck_ you in

He waggled his eyebrows and Chris giggled, an endearing sound.

:: gosh that'd be wizard thanks ever so

:: is that really the way you think the upper crust sounds? 

:: have I been horribly mislead by certain children's authors?

:: Blyton has a lot to answer for... 

 

Chris was beginning to fret about his tranq boost, Tom knew, though he'd calmly assured him it wasn't going to be overlooked. 

:: what if it isn't what if I... revert

:: a: you're not going to :: Tom firmly suppressed the cold tingle trickling down his spine. :: b: there's probably enough of the drugs in your system already to act as a buffer

:: you don't know that

:: I don't I'm only guessing but I think your people are smart enough to have considered the possibility of an interruption to supply and planned accordingly

Chris had accepted the logic but his relief when the nurse showed up at their cell - a woman Tom didn't know but Chris evidently did given he used her name - washed over Tom like a cool seaside breeze.

"Hiddleston. Out."

"Make sure she checks your hands." Tom murmured to Chris as he left. 

He was motioned to stand a little way down the corridor, out of sight of the door, presumably for the patient's privacy. One guard kept an eye on him while the other stood outside the cell, not actively looking at what was going on within but clearly ready to react at the first sign of trouble. 

This section was quiet but there were sounds of unrest, chanting and banging, coming from the next level down. Which was odd given that the thing had kicked off on this level: apparently the action had moved. Tom wanted to know the details - he couldn't plan without adequate input - but the guards were still on edge and neither of them were specials of his so less likely to talk. For the moment though he and Chris looked to be safe where they were.

The nurse finished up, Tom was put back in the cell and the door locked behind him. 

"How are your hands?"

"Just bruised, no problem." Chris slumped, rubbing his eyes. "Why am I so tired?"

Tom sat beside him.

:: tension boredom aftermath of adrenaline take your pick

Chris wrinkled his nose.

:: are we going to be able to shower?

:: we should be allowed access at least every other day but in the meantime we've got hot water 

Tom stood up, stripping off his shirt as he stepped towards the sink. He looked back over his shoulder and grinned.

"Want to scrub my back?"

He ran the water 'til it was warm enough then pushed the stopper down. He didn't hear Chris move up behind him as the sink was filling and didn't quite flinch at the warm touch on his upper arm. Tom wet his washcloth, wrung it out then passed it back over his shoulder. He leant forward, bracing himself on the sink edge, feet slightly apart: the submissiveness of his posture entirely calculated.

He sighed at the first pass of the cloth down along his spine and relaxed further, bending his elbows so his upper body was almost horizontal. He could sense the heat of Chris' body behind him and wanted to push back in to it. _Not yet_.

Chris took his time, smoothing the cooling cloth over Tom's flesh, down his sides, skimming the waist band of his trousers.

:: have you thought about getting a tattoo on your back?

:: no I like to see what's on my skin

:: planning any more?

:: my mum's birth date perhaps

:: no prison tattoos?

Tom snorted.

:: not my aesthetic too crude petal

The cloth was passed back to him. Tom rinsed it out before straightening up and turning around. With a cheeky smirk he again presented the cloth to Chris. The psi didn't touch it, but neither did he step away.

:: you are capable of washing yourself 

:: indulge me

Tom watched Chris' face as he somewhat tentatively started dabbing at his collar bones. Chris didn't meet his eyes as he washed his chest and stomach, staying well above the waist band this time. He was very pink in the cheeks though, and Tom was enjoying himself. 

Chris smacked the cold cloth in to his sternum.

"Seriously you can do the rest yourself."

"Really?" Tom affected a pout. "Oh well."

He toed off his shoes and bent to remove his socks, bringing his face teasingly close to Chris' crotch: the tiny stutter of indrawn breath that promoted was delightful. His smile was benign as he unzipped his trousers, pushing them down along with his underwear before stepping out of them and kicking them aside. Naked now and shivering ever so slightly because it wasn't exactly balmy in here, he turned his back on his cell mate and made a show of rinsing out the cloth. He watched Chris' face in the mirror as he squeezed out the excess water.

"Last chance." He said softly.

Chris paused to clear his throat.

"Maybe next time." 

Tom didn't bother with his legs, though his feet could probably have done with a once over, concentrating on his genitals before reaching behind to swipe the cloth between his cheeks. 

"I'm not going to make you do anything." He said to Chris' reflection. "But I really need a wank." He tilted his head to the side. "Would you rather I went back to my own bed?"

Chris shook his head, swallowing shallowly.

"Okay then." Tom rinsed out the cloth for a final time then hung it over the edge of the sink. "Do you want to wash? You'll need fresh water."

Tom moved out of the way and got himself settled on the bed, on his back and as close to the wall as he could get. He debated, briefly, staying on top of the covers but thought that might be pushing his cell mate a little too far at this point. Chris was nervous, as evidenced by his choppy movements as he quickly undressed then washed without once looking at Tom. He stayed naked though, which was encouraging, not putting on the sloppy old track suit bottom and threadbare t-shirt he usually slept in. He fairly scuttled in to bed however and was under the sheet before Tom got a good look at him.

:: you really don't have to do anything :: Tom had paused in idly stroking his erection. :: and neither do I if you're not okay with this

:: no I'm fine

He was giving a very good impression though of someone bracing for an unpleasant duty. Tom would have called a halt to it right there, but then Chris smiled, sort of shy, and wriggled closer until the glorious heat of his bare skin was touching Tom all along his side from shoulder to toes. 

:: go ahead. please

Chris nuzzled very, very lightly at the angle of Tom's jaw and that was it, Tom couldn't have stopped, even if he'd wanted to, not without great personal sacrifice... and a good deal of heart felt swearing. And possibly justifiable homicide.

It'd been a little while since he'd masturbated so he didn't savour it the way he might've at another, more regularly scheduled time, but it was good, better than good, with Chris lying naked next to him. Better still when he rested his chin on his shoulder and let his warm breath stir against Tom's face. Chris' broad hand slid from the top of his thigh towards the back, and Tom bent his leg at the knee, just enough to give access without impeding the motion of his own hand on his cock. Chris moved slowly up Tom's hamstrings, his fingers curling forward so the tips were _just barely there_ skimming Tom's peritoneum.

Tom shuddered into his climax, physically as quiet as ever but with a mental expletive groaned out over a long, sub-vocal exhale... which of course Chris couldn't fail to ::hear now. The idea bothered Tom less than it might have previously because he was too sodding blissful to care. 

Something was off, though. Chris was still pressed close, Tom could feel his cock against his hip, and he was hard, but not convincingly so. 

:: Chris? 

The blond was unhappily tense beside him and Tom's gut swooped with anxiety that he'd fucked up somehow.

And then he was annoyed, truth be told, because Chris'... _whatever_ was intruding on his satisfaction.

_No, don't be a prick._ Tom shifted on to his side to face the psi, and what he saw pushed the annoyance in to concern. Chris was holding himself unnaturally still, breathing fast and shallow through his nose, his head tilted down so Tom couldn't see his face. 

:: what's wrong?

:: I can't... I can't feel you

Tom was perplexed: feel him? He was right ther - oh... Chris' empathy was blocked.

:: you couldn't... :: Tom cast about for the right words. :: feel what I was feeling?

An answering nod, brief and sharp. Tom held back a sigh.

:: Chris...

:: 'm sorry I shouldn't have said anything 'm supposed to be learning to cope likelike this have to get used to it sometime it's just I I it's so hard sometimes I should be stronger - 

Tom ::listened to the babble of words and realised that Chris was, emotionally, at the end of a very long day.

Tom wanted to help but wasn't sure how. He could boost the morale of a team so they'd work more efficiently, and he could guide individuals towards a better understanding of their strengths and weaknesses, again to stimulate productivity, but he still felt like he was floundering in the dark when it came to such personal distress. 

When all else failed, there was instinct, right? It'd worked last time.

He wrapped himself around Chris, as well as he could, tucking the psi's head underneath his chin.

:: it's all right it really is you're going to be fine

It took several long moments but eventually Chris' shoulders relaxed and his hands came down from where they'd been clutched together tight and protective, high on his chest.   
He breathed out a slow, wavering breath.

:: I'm sorry

He sounded calmer at least. 

:: it's all right you've had a shit day :: The lights snapped off. :: go to sleep we can deal with it all tomorrow


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So there was this riot, right? In the prison, and Chris got caught in it...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~Car pulls up to curb, brakes screeching, chapter is shoved out the door to sprawl on the pavement, then the car takes off again in a squeal of smoking tyres~~
> 
>  
> 
> So here we are, eh? 2017.  
> Thank you for your patience!

He'd fallen asleep face to face with Tom but when Chris woke the following morning he was grateful to find himself looking at Tom's back: he didn't think he'd be able to look him in the eyes right now.

_What was that fucking performance of his last night?_ What a fucking mess. He was a fucking mess.

Yesterday had been trying on all sorts of levels - he was still feeling fragile after the exposure to violence - and then last night being denied the chance to... to take comfort in someone else's pleasure... that had been the last straw. 

The funny thing was he'd thought he'd been doing okay. Sure, being _limited_ hurt, constantly; being kept deaf and blind in such profound isolation was an ongoing trauma, Chris had really thought he'd come to terms with it and was coping... except of course he wasn't. If he hadn't got involved with Tom he might have been able to keep kicking around in his little bubble of denial, kidding himself that he was doing _just fine_. But he was never going to be fine, was he? He was fucked, his life was fucked, he should just - 

Chris swallowed, breathed slowly, concentrated on calming his racing heart. No no no he wasn't going there. He'd come through so much already... did he really want to waste all that effort? And Indie. He missed her so much, his found family. She'd be heart broken if he did anything stupid. 

Chris took another shaky breath, held it, counted to five then breathed out: he wasn't going to disappoint his little sister. Indie wasn't here to help anchor him this time so he'd have to do it himself, but he would, fuck it, he _could_. This shitstorm would pass. They always did.

Chris rested his forehead against the bump of Tom's spine - C7 and T1, where the cervical met the thoracic - rested his hand on Tom's waist, moved his legs a little closer. He could feel Tom breathing, deep and even, his stomach rising and falling beneath his fingers. Tom was real, a solid, tangible presence. Chris couldn't sense him empathically but they could communicate; Chris wasn't entirely alone in the void. 

He'd screwed up so badly last night, detracting from Tom's pleasure. He knew he had, he'd seen the look on his face before he'd responded with, with _kindness_ to Chris' ridiculous meltdown. Chris' gratitude for that was battling with the notion that he didn't deserve it, but that was familiar territory, an old, old argument he'd been having with himself for years, and could safely be set aside. 

Tom shifted, subtle movements that alerted Chris he was awake. 

:: hi :: Chris said. 

:: hi :: Tom stretched in to a yawn before relaxing completely beneath Chris' hand. :: how are you?

:: better. thanks. I'm sorry about last night

Tom turned himself over again, wriggling sinuous as a ferret in that tiny space.

:: you have nothing to apologise for

:: but - 

:: _nothing_ :: Tom's long fingers stroked the hair back from his temple. :: you were at the end of your rope even I could see that 

Chris' smile was shaky. He looked at Tom's lips, wanting suddenly to kiss him but concerned about the boundaries that probably needed delineating. _Stop it. Stop thinking_.

His cellmate's thumb played at the corner of Chris' mouth.

:: I have to piss

Chris couldn't help himself, he laughed, a smothered sort of snort, and Tom smirked as he climbed over him, blatantly not trying to keep a polite distance between them. Chris shivered when he felt Tom's penis roll over his hip. 

Chris watched him at the loo - was that weird? He wasn't sure he could tell any more - not averting his eyes when Tom took himself in hand to aim down in to the steel bowl. Tom sighed in relief as his bladder emptied. 

He'd definitely lost weight over the past few weeks, Chris noted, not enough to be concerning, but he'd need to get back to the gym and rebuild what mass he'd had. Chris quashed the guilty feeling that this was his fault, too: if he hadn't gotten pissy with him about... everything and kept his distance... 

"You're thinking too hard." Tom's voice was low and rough: they actually hadn't verbalised that much in the past day.

"What?"

"I can tell when you're thinking." 

Chris didn't know how to begin to challenge that cryptic comment so he said nothing.

Tom was picking up their discarded clothes, sniffing them before deciding what could be worn again. Socks and underwear were dropped in to a tidy pile on the floor; shirts and trousers were folded and left on his bed. Tom checked his watch, rubbing at the indentations the metal link band had left in his skin. The watch usually came off at night but that hadn't happened yesterday. 

"Lights are on in eight minutes."

He pulled fresh underwear and socks out from their cupboards, not bothering to ask Chris' permission to go through his stuff. Chris didn't mind.

"Those - " Tom pointed at the clothes on his bed. " - will survive another day. As long as we don't run any marathons in them."

Was Tom avoiding him? Chris had expected him to come back to bed, even for the short amount of time before they had to get up - that seemed to be the pattern they'd been establishing - but here he was pottering about, tidying up their cell. Was he keeping himself busy so he wouldn't have to engage with him? Chris couldn't tell.

The emptiness inside him ached, making his eyes prickle preemptively with tears. He shut them tight for a moment, forced it all back down. When he opened his eyes again, Tom was standing perfectly still, looking at him. At first glance his expression seemed closed off, but it wasn't, not really; Chris just couldn't seem to interpret it. Had he ever been able to?

"Time to get up." Tom said, soft. 

Breakfast arrived in the form of individual serves of cereal and UHT milk in tiny containers; dry toast that was nearly cold, and soggy around the edges; tiny pats of margarine. Jam. Tea from an urn. More fruit.

The cell door wasn't open long enough to gauge the sounds in the prison. It seemed quiet though.

They didn't speak during breakfast, verbally or otherwise. Chris didn't know what to say, or how, or even if he should ask the question that was bugging him. _Are you mad at me?_  
Tom would look at him though, often, and smile, a proper smile that reached his eyes. Chris' anxiety began to ease. 

 

Tom was brushing his teeth at the sink when Chris gathered his courage, made his decision. Moving up behind him, Chris placed one hand on Tom's right hip, the bone prominent under his palm. His other hand stroked up Tom's left arm from his elbow to shoulder.

:: what are you doing? :: Tom was watching him through the mirror, studying his face. His mouth turned down at whatever it was he saw. :: you don't owe me anything

That was... too perceptive, because of course Chris felt an obligation to make things right after last night but it was more than just that though. Chris took his time putting his response together.

:: I want... I can't _feel_ you but there are other ways to know you. I want to know you

It was true, he realised, he did, the need for it surging up his spine fierce and hot. The hand on Tom's hip slid across over his belly. Chris leant in and nuzzled Tom's neck, watching his expression in the mirror. He'd back off at the slightest indication that this wasn't welcome. 

:: only if I can reciprocate :: Tom tilted his head ever so slightly, an invitation for Chris to continue what he was doing. His hand covered Chris' where it rested on his stomach. :: it won't be what you're used to but it can still be good

Chris nodded, believing him.

:: all right :: Tom smiled again, teeth showing, almost a grin, almost a challenge. :: have at it petal

He was letting him take the lead, Chris realised with mingled anticipation and dread. What if he was rubbish at this? It'd been a while and he'd always relied on empathic cues to know how to please a partner. 

:: you'll have to tell me if I do something you don't like

Tom pushed back with his arse. 

:: don't worry I will leave you in no doubt as to my satisfaction or otherwise

Chris resisted the urge to bury his face in Tom's shoulder, because he was _blushing_ , of all the stupid reactions to have. Instead he kept mouthing at Tom's neck as his hand moved down to his crotch, rubbing Tom lightly through his trousers. He glanced up: Tom's eyes were huge, his pupils wide and dark. He licked his lips as Chris manoeuvred his trousers open - button then zip - and tugged out the shirt he'd so neatly tucked in earlier. He edged his hand past the elastic waistband of his underwear. 

Chris closed his eyes and concentrated as he stroked. Tom's smell, his muscles flexing and shifting under his skin, the sound of his breathing, heavier and wetter than normal. Chris moved back a step, enough so that when he tugged on Tom's hips he could turn around without effort, then stepped back in, close enough to feel the solidity of his erection still in his underpants. 

Chris leant forward and nuzzled underneath his jaw. Tom's breath jumped: he was bracing himself on the sink edge, both hands clutching at the rim, fine tremors running through his body. Chris smiled and reached up to unbutton his shirt. Top button, second... pausing to smooth open the material and stroke the flushed skin beneath. Third button and on down, until Tom's chest and belly were bare to his gaze and touch and tongue. Fingertips skimming over the list of numbers tattooed on his ribs. Freckles he had never noticed before. Chris dropped to his knees.

He nibbled at Tom's cock through the cotton of his underwear, fingers teasing at the leg hole, plucking at the fabric. He shoved Tom's trousers down but took more care with the underwear, inching it over his cock, teasing the both of them with the slow reveal. Chris rubbed his cheek over Tom's erection, feeling him jerk as stubble dragged against the sensitive skin. Chris apologised by swirling the tip of his tongue around the exposed glans, then he looked up.

Tom's thunderstruck expression prompted a visceral response, a tightening low in Chris' gut. One of Tom's hands had unclenched itself from the sink and was stroking through the hair on his unblemished temple. Chris turned his head to bestow a brief, sloppy kiss to Tom's palm before turning back. 

Chris made the attempt to take him all the way down, something he used to be able to do fairly easily, but it'd been too long. Still, that brief moment had caused Tom to gasp out loud, a definite victory. It wasn't the same, and a deep part of Chris mourned, but there were compensations. Tom may be silent physically but the stream of mental blashphemy was encouraging. 

:: I'm not going to last long

And with that scant warning Tom was pulsing in to Chris' mouth, surprising him but not enough to make him pull away. He waited until Tom's cock began softening on his tongue before letting him slip out, then casually leant sideways to spit in to the toilet.

:: well that answers that question 

Tom was smirking down at him, chest heaving, his hand still tangled in Chris' hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp. Then Chris was pulled him to his feet and Tom was kissing him, deep and dirty, invasive and thrilling - 

The sound of the door unlocking jolted them apart.

"Hemsworth, come with us." 

"I'm... on the loo!" 

Chris got a glimpse of his ravaged face in the mirror as he quickly turned and sat. The guards hadn't stuck their heads so they didn't see that he was still fully dressed. Perhaps they also hadn't seen Tom haul up his clothes as he spun smoothly around to face the sink, affecting nonchalance as he grabbed a toothbrush. Chris' toothbrush, as it happened. A little bubble of hysterical laughter quivered in Chris throat, threatening to pop.

"Hurry up then."

Chris rustled the paper, flushed the toilet for effect then squeezed in beside Tom at the sink to quickly rinse out his mouth and splash his face. The bubble of hysteria swelled further because he saw that Tom hadn't had time to fasten his trousers and the only thing keeping them up was their being trapped between Tom and the sink. No wonder he hadn't budged over to make room for Chris. 

Tom caught his eye and grinned, eyebrows waggling unsubtly, forcing Chris to cough before he laughed.

"Come _on_ , Hemsworth."

"Yes, sir, almost ready."

Tom's expression had sobered; he brushed Chris' arm as the psi straightened up.

:: it will be fine 

Chris took a deep breath in through his nose, nodded and left the cell to join the guards.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~omg it's only been _two weeks_ since the last update!~~
> 
> Happy birthday, Fishie :)

Tom kept up the playful leer as he watched Chris leave, but it vanished once the cell door was locked.

_Shit_.

Okay, no, this probably wasn't anything sinister, just Chris' being interviewed about the riot. It'd been - Tom checked his watch - twenty-four hours, give or take, time enough for the prison population to be stable or at least contained, time for the authorities to try and work out what the fuck had happened, before they were called to account.

He was allowed to be concerned though; Chris was in a better frame of mind than yesterday but there was always the chance he'd put his hand up for whatever he thought he was responsible for. Noble bloody idiot. Too bloody honest, that was his problem. 

Tom tucked his shirt back in, refastened his trousers, gave himself a little squeeze. Chris'... attentions had been unexpected but very nice. The last time Tom'd had sex with someone other than himself had been thirty-six hours before he was arrested, over two years ago. Two years? Closer to three now; no wonder he'd shot off so quickly. Which in the scheme of things was probably just as well: he wasn't bothered by the idea of the guards finding them with his dick in Chris' mouth, but he suspected it would bother Chris. 

Hands on hips, Tom surveyed his cell, turning on the spot to take in all it's miniscule glory, wishing he could at least open the window because it was getting pretty funky in here. He was casting about for something to do, feeling kind of aimless without Chris there and needing a distraction. 

He made himself comfortable on his bed, legs crossed, sitting with his back braced against the wall. Tom closed his eyes and steadied his breathing, focused his concentration. His shields slid in to place, crisp and clean. He held them for a count of ten then dropped them. _Repeat, repeat, repeat_. Once the tiny wobble in his control lessened at the end of ten counts, he extended it to fifteen, then twenty, pushing himself. _Repeat, repeat, repeat..._

He didn't realise Chris had returned until the sound of the cell door locking penetrated his deep absorbtion. Tom blinked his eyes open and Chris was standing there. He looked...

"Are you all right?"

He tried to move, the urge to get to Chris was immediate and overriding, but his legs were stiff and he winced as his back spasmed when he shifted his weight. How long had he been sitting there? 

"Are _you_ all right?" Chris, frowning, extended a hand to help Tom up of the bed watching closely as he gingerly unfolded himself.

:: yeah, just... too long staying still :: He huffed out a breath in relief when he was finally standing upright, relaxing his shoulders down out of their hunch. :: must've been concentrating too hard and lost track of time 

He looked down at his watch, made some calculations. 

:: you've been gone ninety minutes?

:: felt like hours :: Chris sighed: he hadn't let go of Tom's hand. :: what were you doing?

:: practising

Tom grinned and put his shields up. Chris stared at him for a few seconds, licked his lips.

"I can't sense you at all. Could you hear me?"

Tom yanked the shield down.

:: no is that...?

:: it's proficient is what it is

Tom was torn: on the one hand it was always gratifying, ego-stroking even, to know he was good at something; but on the other he couldn't fail to notice Chris' discomfiture when he'd been shut out, and his relief when Tom let him back in. That was a measure of emotional power over the psi he wasn't sure he could be trusted with.

:: you were interviewed about the riot? :: He wasn't avoiding the issue at all.

:: yeah they showed me the CCTV footage :: Chris rubbed hard his forehead. :: I was so... fuck... and they kept asking me the same questions over and over again

Tom's lips thinned; he knew the tactic.

:: did the footage match up with your memory?

:: more or less it was pretty clear the guards and I were attacked first but they kept on at me insinuating I had something to do with starting it

:: you didn't though :: Tom was firm. :: and they can't say you did 

:: if they try - 

:: then you don't say anything at all until your lawyer is there understand?

Chris nodded, slumping.

:: come on :: Tom's lips quirked. :: it's almost time for our delicious morning tea then you can do your breathing

:: yay

:: and then you could perhaps give me a massage? 

:: I can do that :: Chris' expression flicked between suggestive and unsure. :: this morning... was that okay?

Tom was surprised at the question, he thought he'd been quite obvious about his enjoyment, but perhaps Chris needed reassurance. They hadn't had time to debrief before he'd been hauled away, had they? Tom leant in close, slowly, to nuzzle the corner of Chris' mouth.

:: it was more than okay petal 

Chris' mouth smiled under his; his arms came up around Tom's waist, pullling him closer as he shifted his head the small distance needed to align their lips -

There was a noise outside in the corridor and Chris wrenched himself away. He caught himself and grimaced. 

"I'm sorry I'm sorry."

"That's all right." Tom made the effort to be reassuring. "We can wait 'til lights out. Can't we?"

He grinned and arched an eyebrow, inviting his cell mate to take it as a joke if he needed to, but Chris just smirked, suddenly sultry, looking at him from half-lidded eyes.

"Until lights out."

Tom kept his hands away from himself with an effort.

 

The day inched by. They were fed; they exercised; Tom got his massage - as much for his back as the headache that'd developed from the shielding practice - and then napped. They were fed some more; they played cards, poker at first then intense, highly competitive and hilarious games of 'snap'. 

Chris was escorted to the hospital wing for his tranq boost in the evening and when he returned he gave Tom all the news chatty nurse Jamie had given to him. The prison was almost completely back under control. The civilian medical staff had resisted being evacuated, consenting instead to being locked in under guard. They'd been needed, naturally, with a number of casualties, but there'd been no fatalities. The injured staff had been taken off-site - the two guards who'd accompanied Chris had copped the worst of it - and of the fifteen prisoner casualties only three were serious enough to have been kept on the ward there. Chris recited their names; they were all chums of Rattray. 

:: will we be coming out of lock down soon? :: he asked.

:: possibly :: Tom said. :: depends on how twitchy the authourities are

:: they're going to let us shower, right? 'Cause... :: Chris' nose was wrinkling.

:: here's hoping but in the meantime there's still the sink :: he smiled brightly. :: do you want me to wash your back?

Chris' blush could set paper alight, he was sure, but...

:: uh okay

To preserve his composure Tom had to turn away and start fussing with the hot water because honestly he hadn't expected Chris to say yes. When the small basin was plugged up and filled he stepped to one side and lowered his head in almost mock deference.

"Sir's bath is ready, if sir would care to disrobe."

The look on Chris' face was a picture but then he grinned and started unbuttoning his shirt. Tom didn't even pretend he wasn't watching.

"What is the verb of 'butler' anyway? Butle? Buttlering?" Chris asked.

"Strictly speaking I'm performing the duties of a valet. So I'm valeting for you. As it were." Tom was a little distracted by this point because Chris was shrugging out of his shirt and, oh boy.

"Have you ever had a valet?" Chris was making a start on his trousers. He was grinning at Tom like he knew exactly what he was thinking.

"I had a batman in the army. And a fag at school."

Chris went still in surprise.

"That's actually a real thing?"

"Yep. And I fagged for an older boy when I was a junior." He pointed at Chris' crotch. "Don't stop now."

Chris shook his head but continued pushing his trousers and underwear down, kicking off his shoes to stand completely naked and unselfconscious in front of him. Tom couldn't wait any more; he quickly wet a cloth then slapped it down in the middle of Chris' broad chest.

:: I thought you wanted to wash my back?

:: hush I'm doing this first

He _had_ intended to only do Chris' back but once he had his hands on him Tom just wanted to touch everywhere. He took his time, wiping Chris' face and around his neck, his chest, underarms, slow strokes that lingered on his skin. Chris was relaxed throughout it all, even when Tom stood behind him to finally wash his back and yes, even when the cloth was wiping over his arse. It was tempting but Tom kept strictly to the surface, no delving down and deeper. Who could blame him for wanting to do that though? Chris was... lovely, pliant, emminently fuckable, but he was trusting Tom at this moment and Tom, feeling virtuous, wanted to keep that trust more than he wanted to get his fingers - at the very least - in to Chris. There'd be time for that later. 

Tom rinsed out the cloth then, keeping eye contact, his lips twisting up in to a self-satisfied smile, steadied himself with one hand on Chris' shoulder while rubbing lightly and gently between his thighs and around his genitals, teasing him erect under the pretense of hygiene. Was Tom above using low cunning to get what he wanted? _Hell, no_. 

Chris blushed again, lips parting as Tom got him hard; his eyes went very wide as Tom knelt down. 

Tom gazed up at him, nudging delicately at Chris' cock with his cheek. 

:: I have to confess I've received more blow jobs than given

:: you, you don't have to

:: not this time perhaps :: Tom grinned. :: lie down I'm going to wash your feet

:: oh now you really don't have to do that

:: all part of the valeting :: he pushed at Chris' hips. :: lie down 

Chris did as he was told, stretching out on his back on the bed, but propping himself up on his elbows, the better to watch. Still kneeling, Tom washed Chris' feet, between his toes, smiling when he twitched. It wasn't such a chore: Chris' feet weren't that ripe, and from this angle Tom had a glorious view straight up his legs to his cock. 

Tom rinsed out Chris' cloth, changed the water then gave himself a quick wash - pits and balls, basically - not wasting any more time because it would be lights out soon and he wanted to see Chris' face when he made him come. 

Chris collapsed back fully as Tom crawled up his body, raking his fingers through his hair like he didn't know what to do with his hands. Tom knelt over him, knees on either side of his hips. 

:: tell me to stop at any point and I will

Chris nodded, and Tom got to work. He didn't go straight for his dick though, oh no that would be too easy. Hard and fast had its place but this first time Tom planned to leave an impression. Chris was well and truly onboard with what was happening but Tom wanted to continue seducing him for a while longer. He wanted him to understand, viscerally, just how good Tom could make this.

Tom smoothed his fingertips outwards over Chris' forehead, down his temples, cheeks, to his throat, flattening his hands out as he moved over his shoulders and down his arms. It wasn't a massage, not in the therapeutic sense, just a light touch to sensitise his skin. Too light down his ribs, as it happened, but Tom was able to soothe the ticklishness with a heavier stroke and a ::murmurred apology. 

Tom slid backwards enough so that his legs were stretched wide over Chris' thighs. He'd been aware of Chris' erection caught lightly beneath him but now it was set free. Tom had spent most of his life in the close company of other people with penises, and while you weren't supposed to look, there was nothing to stop you privately making comparisons. There wasn't a lot of difference between his dick and Chris', Tom was satisfied to note, though erect, perhaps, Chris was slightly girthier. 

Tom made sure he had Chris' attention by licking his palm then wrapping his hand around both of their cocks, and oh, that was _nice_. 

:: yes? :: 

He was thankful for his long fingers: keeping them both in hand, so to speak, while stroking would've been a lot trickier otherwise. 

Chris swallowed.

:: 's good

His hands had come down from his hair and he was clutching at Tom's legs. Tom added more spit to his palm and kept at it, varying the pace and grip, really, really enjoying seeing what this was doing to Chris. He was tensing up underneath Tom, his fingers digging in to his thighs, almost on the edge of pain. 

:: faster. please

Tom was more than happy to oblige because he was close himself, so close....

Chris came first, mouth an almost perfect circle - the perfect 'O' face, Tom thought a little hysterically - and while he was still shuddering, clumsily knocked Tom's hand out of the way. Tom was about to protest, because come on _it was his turn_ , but pretty much all rational thought evaporated when Chris wrapped his hand around him and took up where Tom'd left off. With Chris' semen increasing the ease of slide it didn't take long before it was indeed Tom's turn, the climax rippling up his spine, snapping his head back and the breath out of him in a silent, drawn out _aaahhhh_. 

The lights went off. Strong fingers wrapped around the back of his neck and Tom was unceremoniously hauled down to lie flat on Chris' chest. In the near dark and inbetween breathless giggles, there was some clumsy fumbling as they got their mouths in the right positions. Tom let Chris take the lead this time, letting himself be kissed. No, not just kissed: there was a lazy kind of... worship?... about it. Tom wasn't going to try and analyse it, his higher brain functions weren't at their best right at this moment anyway. 

Waves of sleepy satisfaction rolled through him and he couldn't tell, didn't particularly care, if they were his or Chris'. They managed to get underneath the sheet, Chris using a corner to wipe up the worst of the mess, then Tom found himself bundled up securely in Chris' arms, his head tucked under his chin, enveloped and protected. Was he the princess now? He really, really didn't mind.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the prison's sexual health policy is based on approximately _zero_ research.
> 
> There was some weirdness with the tenses going on. I think I caught them all. Let me know if I've missed any :)

Chris shuddered awake, breath catching in his throat. _He was alone_.

He blinked and lifted his head, breathed out then relaxed. He actually wasn't alone, it's just that Tom wasn't beside him. 

Tom was sitting on the toilet, leaning an arm on the sink and watching him dispassionately.

Chris worked some saliva in to his mouth so he could swallow and loosen up his throat enough to speak.

"Morning."

"I'm thinking," Tom said without pre-amble, in that cultured accent of his. " - about your dick."

It was too early for any sort of reasoned response to that sort of statement.

"...Oh?"

"Specifically that if you want to fuck me you're going to need more than just spit."

"Yeah, probably. And yes I do still want to fuck you." Chris really really wished Tom was back in bed with him, or they were at least touching so they could communicate properly. "But if it's conditional on you getting to fuck me at some point... then no. Just want to make that clear."

Tom tilted his head to one side, thinking.

"I understand."

Chris wondered if he did, if he _really_ did, and wasn't just saying that with the idea that in the future he could try again, weasel his way around to it, emotional blackmail: _that's not fair look at what I've done for you_...

"I'm not going to make you do anything you don't want to, Chris. You have my word."

Chris swallowed his concern: was he that easy to read? 

"But you do want to fuck me."

"Of course. I have a dick. I want to put it in you." Thin lips quirked up in to a reserved smile. "I've never really got much out of taking it. Do you think you're the man to change my mind?"

"I can only do my best."

Tom shifted on the loo so he was facing him. He lifted a leg and placed it on the bed, sole to sole through the sheet with Chris' foot.

:: but back to the subject at hand

:: lube?

:: it's easy enough to get hold of but I'm... reluctant to ask

Tom was looking at him, practically expressionless but in reality, Chris could see, strongly contained. Chris had a flash of insight about why that might be.

:: is this an alpha male thing? :: he smirked, exaggeratedly, to soften the question. :: you could be using it to fuck me

:: that's not the narrative that's been foisted on me

_Rattray._

:: penetration isn't the be all and end all we don't have to go there 

But oh gods he wanted to.

:: but you want to and... I believe it will be good for you :: Tom grimaced. :: that sounded less patronising in my head :: He visibly took a breath and tried again. :: your emotional and mental well-being is important. to me. I want to help you in any way I can

He was still looking directly at Chris, but there was blushing now, along his high cheekbones and down his long throat. Chris didn't know what to say.

:: you're not as selfish as you like to pretend

:: oh I am :: Tom wasn't smiling. :: my own self-interest is at the centre of everything I do never underestimate that

Chris stroked his toes against Tom's.

:: you're willing to let me fuck you, thank you for that, but you're reluctant to let anyone know about it, does that about sum it up?

Tom nodded, smiled a little.

:: you were a counselor weren't you?

:: still am :: Chris grinned. 

:: then counsel me 

Chris eyed the hint of a shit-eating grin on Tom's face.

:: nope that'd be a conflict of interest

:: then as a... friend what would you advise?

:: as a friend? :: Chris let his own shit-eating grin appear. :: get yourself some help, man 

Tom took his foot away.

"You're no help at all."

A brief flare of concern that Tom was withdrawing from him clogged Chris' throat - but no, he just needed both feet on the floor so he could wipe his arse.

"I'm a lot of help, it's just not the sort of help you'd prefer."

Tom snorted.

"You're right." The lights snapped on and he sighed. "Another day in paradise..."

 

While they were collecting their breakfast they were told they'd be allowed to shower at some point during the day, and also to have their laundry ready to go, because if there was time, and no incidences - that was heavily stressed - that service would be accessible as well. 

The showering happened sooner rather than later, before morning tea. The prisoners were escorted out in groups of ten, under the watchful eyes of three guards. There was no talking permitted and the time allowed to luxuriate under the flow of hot water was strictly five minutes. The whole process took a quarter of an hour, from leaving their cells to being locked in again. In their absence the cells had been left open to air and that was almost as refreshing as getting to leave them in the first place. Tom, always suspicious, looked around but concluded that nobody had been in there while they'd been gone. That is was illegal to search a cell without it's occupant/s being present wouldn't have deterred them, he said, and neither did he believe 'they' were above planting evidence.

Two guards came for Chris after lunch. Tom hadn't been quick enough to hide his concern from him but his expression was all bland non-curiosity with the guards. One of Chris' escort lagged behind to lock the door: Chris glanced back over his shoulder as he was marched away to see the guard perhaps say something to Tom. He thought he recognised him as one of The Captain's friendlies.

Chris was taken to the hospital wing for an appointment he vaguely remembered was coming up. The doctor checked him over, his ribs and his cheek, and declared he was healing well. Chris was sent back after an hour with some new, milder meds, and a print-out of exercises to help regain mobility and strength. It would be a few weeks yet before he could do any proper weight-training but this was a start. 

Tom's naked relief at seeing him made him warm all the way down to his toes. Chris laid a hand on Tom's shoulder, his thumb resting up against his neck. 

:: doctor's appointment

:: how'd it go?

Tom didn't acknowledge the touch at all but he was relaxing under Chris' palm.

:: I'm on the mend. meds are scaled back :: He pulled the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. :: I have some exercises to do

Tom took it, scrutinising the list because of course he was going to make sure Chris did as he was told.

:: not dissimilar to what you're already doing I'm pleased to note 

:: yep, you have official medical sanction for the torture now

Tom grinned, sharp and mischievous.

:: excellent

 

They stripped the beds and pillow cases, and bundled up their dirty clothes in readiness for the possible laundry trip. 

"This is going to be a waste of effort if we don't get to go to the laundry." Chris grumbled. 

"Doesn't matter." Tom shrugged. "If the sheets have to go back on we'll just use mine, because yours, frankly..."

He wrinkled his nose and Chris laughed.

"Whose fault is that?"

Tom stepped close, facing him, and placed his hand on Chris' arm. Chris tensed - there was only millimetres between their cocks - half expecting the door to fling open or some other interruption because - 

Tom had nudged his hips forward, pressing their groins together. Chris swallowed, unable to look away from Tom's eyes. He was close enough to kiss.

:: mine obviously :: Tom licked his lips. :: it usually is

Then he smiled, a pleased, almost smug little expression, and stepped away. Chris got the impression he was being played, or seduced, and for a moment he could only blink stupidly.

"Right. All done." Tom said brightly. He picked up the pack of cards on their table. "Snap?"

 

Chris' efforts with the bedding weren't wasted; late afternoon, in the hour before dinner, they were again let out in small, supervised groups to visit the laundry. Tom, as usual, and Chris by virtue of his association with the Captain, came back with the best quality kit. 

They remade their beds and stowed the rest of their kits while waiting for dinner. Tom was, verbally at least, playful and a bit flirty. Chris liked this side of Tom. He was privileged to see it, he knew, here in the locked privacy of their cell, away from the close-quarters scrutiny of the rest of the prison. 

 

Chris came back from his regular trip to the hospital wing that evening bearing gifts. The look on Tom's face was priceless when he realised just what it was that Chris had pressed against his chest. 

:: got what you wanted :: Chris said, smug. 

Tom looked down at the small plastic bag of condoms and sachets of lube.

:: did you steal these?

:: or I could've just asked :: Chris saw the unease flash across Tom's face and quickly backtracked. :: nah, I stole 'em

Tom narrowed his eyes like he didn't believe him but he let it go.

Chris hadn't stolen them. The nurse administering his boost tonight was Shirley, the stern one who followed the rules. If it'd been chatty Jamie Chris knew he wouldn't have taken the opportunity to make some enquiries.

"Are there policies, guidelines here for sexual health?" Chris'd asked as she prepared the syringe.

Shirley didn't bat an eye.

"You weren't given the talk when you arrived?"

"If I was I don't remember it." 

Shirl wiped an antiseptic pad over the injection site on Chris' deltoid.

"Officially, the prison authority doesn't permit sexual contact between inmates but as it's as much a fact of life here as anywhere we have departmental approved guidelines. Condoms and lubricant are available."

"Do you have to record who asked?"

"Yes, but your medical records have the same confidentiality here as outside."

Chris was sceptical about that, but anyway.

"Would I have to disclose any partners?"

"No. And we're not allowed to ask. Unless you subsequently test positive for STIs. Even then we'll be discreet. The focus is to stop the diseases spreading." She got him to hold a scrap of gauze against the tiny wound while she stripped the syringe down and disposed of it. 

"Is testing mandatory?"

Shirl looked pained for a moment.

"I'd like to say yes, but it's only strongly recommended. At least once a year if you've been sexually active. More often if you've had more than one partner, or if you know your partner has had other partners."

She annotated his chart then flicked briefly through to a section at the back of his folder.

"You tested negative when you came in. Do you need another test now?"

Chris was grateful for the nurse's professional matter-of-factness but it was still embarrassing. 

"No. I'm good. Thanks."

He was fairly confident about that. Tom by his own admission hadn't, um, been intimate with anyone while he'd been here. _Could you trust him though?_ The niggling, doubting, over-cautious sprite in his head sounded just like his sister. He told it to sod off: it trusted no one, but he'd learnt to.

"Condoms and lube, then?" Shirl asked, brisk.

"Yes, please." 

How could this be more excruciating than when his foster parents had told him casually, in passing, when he was fifteen, that there would always be condoms in the bathroom. 

Shirl handed him a small plastic bag containing two condoms and a whole four, count 'em, sachets of lube. He and the nurse shared a sardonic look. 

"Budgetary restraints." She sighed. "And a lingering prudishness, though the official reason is to prevent hoarding."

Chris understood that, but he knew he'd be more likely to ask for extra when he ran out if there'd been a reasonable amount to begin with. Oh well.

 

So here they were, with Chris waiting for Tom's decision.

:: all right :: Tom picked up Chris' right hand, singled out his middle finger and brushed it over his lips before sucking it in to his mouth, eyes crinkling in amusement at Chris' barely contained groan. :: just this. for now

There was no question Tom was in charge of the show and all Chris had to do was exactly what he was told. Tom wanted to face him but didn't want to be on his back so Chris was directed to sit on Tom's bed with his back against the wall. The concrete was shockingly cold against bare skin but that discomfort was forgotten when Tom, grinning, straddled his thighs and squeezed in close. He reached between them, adjusting their cocks - already half hard in Chris' case - so there'd be no uncomfortable trapping or pinching later on.

A finger under Chris' chin urged his head up and then he was being kissed, not forcefully but there was a definite intent to the assault on his mouth. Chris grinned and pulled his head back: if Tom was thinking to just get this over with as quickly as possible, well, _hah_. 

:: there's no hurry :: Chris nipped gently at Tom's throat. :: trust me

Tom breathed out through his nose, relaxing, then pulled Chris' mouth back to his. He shared the kissing this time, gentle and exploratory, threading his fingers through Chris' hair. He was moving his hips, subtle rolls that deliciously worked their cocks together between their bellies.

:: give me your hand

Tom watched Chris' face as he opened one of the sachets for him and anointed the chosen finger.

:: there do your worst

:: my best you mean

Tom draped his arms over Chris' shoulders and held still as Chris reached over his hip and down his buttocks. There wouldn't be any deep penetration from this angle unless...

Tom tilted his pelvis back making it easier for Chris to find his target. He went back to kissing Chris as he played with his hole, using the tip of a slick finger to spread the lube around before pushing ever so slightly in.

:: okay?

Tom nodded, his respiration beginning to fray against Chris' lips. 

:: more

Chris pressed in, slowly, deeper, paying attention to the details of Tom's body accepting him, the heavy, shuddering breath, the relaxing of his rim. He was so caught up in this he didn't notice that Tom had somehow managed to empty the last of the sachet on to his own fingers until a cool, slick hand reached between them to scoop up both their cocks and repeat his trick of last night.

:: fucking hell I'd forgotten how good lube was for wanking

Tom's nails dug in to Chris' shoulder as he got closer but it's Chris who gets there first, Tom's head dipping down to neck as he comes halfway up his own chest. Tom finished himself off shortly after then slumped bonelessly over him. He barely twitched as Chris eased his finger out of him.

:: okay?

:: just lovely petal

Tom straightened up, taking hold of Chris' head to indulge in more of those lazy kisses he seemed to like, but not for nearly long enough. The lights had flicked out at some point - Chris hadn't noticed - and he would've been happy to sit here and snog in the almost-dark until the tranqs forced him asleep but Tom sighed and began disentangling himself. 

They cleaned up at the sink, wiping semen off their chests and stomachs. Chris watching as closely as he could to judge for himself how Tom was moving.

"Stop fussing." Tom murmured with a sharp edge of asperity. "I'm fine." 

Chris grabbed a handful of toilet paper then snagged Tom around the waist and pulled him close, eliciting something like a giggle.

:: may I? :: he asked.

Tom kissed him underneath his chin.

:: if you really want to

They kissed some more while Chris mopped up. 

:: does that feel like I got it all?

:: I think so

They arranged themselves in Chris' bed, Chris facing the wall, Tom crowded close behind him, his legs tangled with Chris' and an arm over his waist.

:: right, so...

:: yes :: Tom nuzzled the back of his neck. :: you can do that again

~~~oOo~~~

There was no formal announcement of the lockdown being lifted: the first they knew of it was when the cell door electronically unlocked next morning, just like normal.

The prisoners filtered out of their cells, a little cautiously. There were extra guards on duty, hustling them along.

Lining up for food felt like a privilege. 

Tom's posse was already seated at their regular table: Arnold, Biggsy, Rocco - looking worse for wear - Dave and Dorney.

"And here's the happy couple!" Arnold crowed, lifting his mug aloft in a toast.

"Oh piss off." Tom countered good naturedly.

"We didn't get an invitation to the wedding. Must say I'm disappointed."

"It was an exclusive event, with an similarly exclusive guest list. I'm afraid you didn't make the cut." 

Chris smiled uncertainly amidst the hearty laughs and nods and winks, until it finally twigged just where these 'friends' were looking. Chris shoved his foot firmly against Tom's underneath the table.

:: did you mark me you bastard?

He was remembering now Tom's mouth on his neck and shoulder as he came.

:: you better fucking believe it petal 

No hint of an apology from the unprincipled prick and Chris was just about to let him have it - mentally - when Tom leant forward, the rest of his crew naturally moving with him.

"Rattray's been transferred." He announced.

Amid the general, muted exclamations of vindictive delight, Chris was remembering the guard yesterday, lingering at their cell door.

:: that's why you let me do that last night, isn't it? because Rattray's not here anymore

:: remember what I said about my own self-interest? it applies to withholding information too.

"Does this mean the shit's over?" Dave was asking.

"Until someone decides to have another crack at me." Tom was smiling; he sat back. "So, it's been days. How is everyone?" 

"Your man Rocco here - " Arnold said, clapping the man in question on the shoulder. " - went above and beyond in the recent unrest."

"You are looking a trifle worse for wear." Tom quirked an eyebrow at him. "What happened?"

"Had to protect you boy there." Rocco nodded at Chris.

Rocco had managed to channel the direction of the rioters away from Chris and down to the next level where he'd targeted those few of Rattray's chums that'd found themselves in there as well. He'd paid for it: he was battered, had been locked in with the rest of them and now had a black mark against his name. He hadn't been alone in the fight though; popular sentiment had been running high against Rattray.

"Thank you." Tom said, sincere. "If you need anything..."

He left the offer open. He knew how generous he was being, and the possible consequences if Rocco asked for too much. 

Chris was very quiet through all this, though he did smile thanks at Rocco.

:: I'm still the fucking princess aren't I?

:: they like you enough to protect you

:: really? or are they protecting me to please you?

:: does it matter? you're protected. do they look out for you because you're with me? to an extent but mostly they do it because they like you

:: there's debts accruing

:: if you're worried about repayment you do that by being your usual helpful self. nobody's going to ask more of you

 

Chris, in a mood, went for a shower after breakfast and what he saw in the larger washroom mirrors hadn't improved his temper. On a suspicion - the hot water had stung his back - he checked his rear view as well. Yep, visible scratches across his shoulders. _Motherfucker_.

"Did you have to make it so obvious?" He growled at Tom, back in their cell.

Tom looked up from his book and smirked.

"I rather like seeing you marked up like that."

"You don't want anyone to know you're being fucked but you're quite happy to let them think all sorts of things about me." Tom said nothing. Chris ground his teeth together. "You are unfuckingbelievable."

Tom's response was sharp.

"I did warn you, petal, remember? About my self-interest." He studied Chris' face, his thunderous glower and conceded to a possible error in judgement. "You're humiliated, I understand that. I won't do it again, all right? Unless I am completely overcome with passion."

There was a lot to unpack in that statement and Chris wasn't in the mood to be analysing nuances of language. With no comeback ready he could only bare his teeth at Tom before turning his back on him.

"Hemsworth. Visitor."

Chris twitched; being so caught up in his - righteous - indignation he hadn't heard the guards approach. He didn't even look at Tom as he was pulled out of the cell. 

 

Indie was waiting for him, standing next to one of the little tables in the Visits Hall. Outwardly she was composed but long association betrayed to Chris the small indications of his sister's anxiousness, the set of her fingers, the thinning of her lips. Those, and she flung herself at him as soon as he was in range. 

:: are you all right? the riot was in the news I couldn't get any information they wouldn't let me visit 

She was hugging him tightly, enough to make his damaged rib protest.

:: yeah I'm fine it's quiet now I'm so glad to see you

They sat and Indie's eye was immediately caught on his neck. She stared hard at Tom's handiwork but didn't say anything, which was a-okay with Chris because he wasn't going to mention it if she wasn't. 

"Your phone call. You wanted to see me..."

The phone call he'd made the morning of the riot. It felt like weeks ago.

"Tom needs an assessment."

Indie suppressed her startlement.

"He what...?"

"An assessment." Chris lowered his voice. " I thought Isla might be the best in this case."

Indie had leant towards him across the table.

"Why does he need it?"

"Something's going on. I can't tell what it is but... " Chris' voice dropped to a bare whisper. "... he is definitely not a standard."

Indie was thinking.

"Does he know about this?"

"Yes."

"Did he agree?"

"He can't legally refuse, he knows that."

"All right. I'll get in touch with her. You'll need to warn him he's going to be contacted."

"How soon?"

Chris saw his sister's gaze slide sideways and down, an indication she was :: talking to someone. 

"Tonight."

_Oh boy_.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Assessment. dun dun DUN

Tom lay flat on his bed, hands behind his head, knees bent to spare his back, staring up at the ceiling. There'd been a few times in his life when he'd been told figuratively, and literally, to _'have a good, hard think about what you've just done, (young man)_ ', but this was the first time he'd said it to himself. He knew precisely why he'd marked Chris so obviously. 

It'd been a spur of the moment decision but not done in the heat of passion. No, he'd waited until Chris was in a state to either not realise it was happening and/or not be able to do anything about it. Had he thought about how Chris would react? Nope, he hadn't thought of him at all, just how the statement written on Chris' body would affect his own standing.

In hindsight, in light of Chris' reaction to what could reasonably be called objectification, Tom granted that he'd probably made a mistake. No, fuck off, there was nothing probable about it; he'd made a mistake, which had been exacerbated by Chris not knowing it had happened until it was jeeringly brought to his attention. _Shit_. Chris was a darling man, Tom knew, but he had his pride. Outwardly he'd kind of laughed it off, what choice did he have, really? But he'd been seething since breakfast, and Tom was left with the distinctly uncomfortable knowledge that he'd definitely done a shitty thing. 

Tom' heart rate suddenly spiked as he realised... Had he put Chris in danger? If some dickhead saw the mess on his throat and equated it with availability...? Shit. _Shit_. Chris would probably fight back if pushed, he wasn't helpless, but he didn't need the added complication of getting a reputation for aggression. Tom had spent enough time with him to see how exposure to violence, even just the threat of it, eroded some fundamental brightness in him. 

A few minutes later Chris returned from his visit: he slumped on his bed, hands between his knees, not looking at him. Tom turned over on to his side to face him and tentatively extended a hand.

"Don't touch me."

_Lighten up. It was just a bit of fun. It was just a joke -_.

"I'm sorry."

"I am so angry with you. Do you know what position you've put me in?"

"Yes."

"Really?" The scepticism bit hard. "I was actually approached twice on the way back here, in front of the fucking guard. 'Hey, sweetheart, wanna spend some time with me?''

Chris made a noise of disgust while the back of Tom's scalp prickled: he'd only just been thinking that... 

"Thanks to you I don't feel like I can step out of this cell without inviting..." Chris shuddered. "Just fucking no." He eased himself to lie down on his bunk. "I've seen my sister. Your assessment is happening tonight."

"Oh, right, what do I -"

"I thought about not telling you," Chris overrode him, like he hadn't spoken at all. "Just letting you be surprised by it, but I at least try to be a decent human being."

Then he rolled over to face the wall, shutting Tom out completely, which was aggravating because Tom needed more information, but he diplomatically held his tongue. He'd let Chris be, for now.

 

Chris only left the cell that day for meals. He did his exercises on his own and didn't say a word more to Tom. He was quiet during meal times but not outwardly unhappy. He smiled along with the conversation the others made - no one mentioned the mark again - but kept his physical and social distance from Tom. Tom admitted he deserved that but it hurt in ways he couldn't quantify, even as a snide, entitled part of him wondered how long he was going to let Chris sulk because _come on_.

Tom used the excuse of getting business back on track to keep out Chris' way but after three days of enforced proximity, Tom was missing him, his physical presence, and, he could swear the elastic, ephemeral nature of that stupid bond was becoming firmer, a physical tug every step he took away from Chris, with a corresponding urge to get back to him. For fuck's sake.

 

He'd managed to keep a lid on it all but by the end of the day Tom was buzzing unpleasantly with a combination of anxieties. Not knowing anything about the process of assessment was a good chunk of it, sure, but Chris blanking him contributed to the rest. That abated somewhat after lock in, when they were forced into proximity again, even though Chris continued to ignore him.

All right, enough: Tom wanted to know what was going to happen, he needed to know. He'd given Chris his space but now he was just being obstructive.

"About this assessment...?"

Chris lifted his head from his book, and the gleam in his eyes was... triumphal? Tom, understanding, withheld a scowl: Chris'd been waiting for him to break first, the prick. That was so petty! But not an unreasonable form of payback, Tom had to grudgingly admit. 

"My sister will contact you and put you in touch with a Diviner."

"How will she..."

"She can target me, and you're the next closest mind." His smile was condescending. "Don't worry she won't barge in. She'll ask first."

Tom weathered the barb but wondered how long Chris was going to keep this -

A lovely, sweetly floral scent [ _orange blossom?_ ] appeared out of nowhere then:

:: Mr Hiddleston

Tom couldn't help but twitch.

:: Ms Mehra I presume

:: the same. I'm going to link you with Isla :: There was a pause. :: go ahead, Isla

:: Mr Hiddleston, hello! May I call you Tom?

:: please do

It was the politest conference call Tom had ever participated in. 

:: Mr Hiddleston :: Mehra again. :: may I speak with Chris?

He'd have to touch Chris for that, what a calamity.

:: certainly hang on

"Your sister wants to talk to you."

Chris nodded, not looking overjoyed, lay down on his bed with a sigh and turned to face the wall.

"Would you mind coming over here?"

_Oh_. Tom didn't exactly scramble to get in to bed with Chris - there was more dignity to it than that - but he moved quickly, anticipating the relief that would come when they were in physical contact again. 

They both relaxed as he climbed in behind Chris; both exhaled long breaths at the same time.

"I _am_ very sorry." Tom whispered, kissing between his shoulders.

"Yeah, all right." Chris sighed. "We can talk about it later."

:: thank you, Mr Hiddleston :: Mehra was saying. :: Isla and yourself will be behind a privacy screen

:: thanks, Indira :: Isla's mental tone was warm and fond, in comparison to Mehra's overall crisp efficiency.

The floral scent disappeared as walls settled around him and the Diviner. No, not walls, more like canvas, like a tent. The fabric letting in light and air, shielding you from view while still letting you retain an awareness of what was going on outside. It felt _safe_. It was making him nostalgic: when was the last time he'd been camping? Add that to the 'to do' list for when he got out.

Tom frowned; there was a surprising... taste in the back of his mouth.

:: is that - 

:: caramel yes :: Isla confirmed cheerfully. :: and you noticed the scent that appeared when Indira contacted you? All psionics have a unique mental signature; sounds or smells, tastes or sensations can be part of that

:: I... see

:: it's a pity you can't feel Chris' :: There was regret in her tone. :: his is a warm sort of glow, like moving out of cold shadow in to sunlight. yours is peppermint, in case you were wondering. the herb, not the lolly. it's very refreshing

Tom's mouth was suddenly dry as he struggled to process this - he could distantly feel his body tensing. 

:: then I am psionic? latent?

:: not latent, my dear, suppressed. there's a difference

Isla had a sense of age to her, Tom realised. 

:: just... give me a moment

The Diviner waited patiently while Tom got a grip. 

:: okay. suppressed? how did that happen

:: you did it to yourself, very early on. not surprising given the family you came from

That made an unholy amount of sense. His father hated psionics but his grandfather...? His hatred had been a whole other level of repugnant. He'd been instrumental in setting up and funding the most virulent anti-psi party in the early 20th century; he'd pushed for legislation to suppress psionics and he'd never made any apology for his beliefs. Never made any attempt at conciliation either, when the tide of opinion had begun to turn. No wonder a young Tom had hidden himself. Pure self defense. 

:: you weren't able to completely bury it all the time though :: Isla said. :: now we'll have a look and see what we've got

:: how are you going to do that...?

Isla chuckled.

:: the closest analogy is me reading your 'aura' but it's nothing like that really and I can't explain, it has to be experienced. now hush for a moment, my lovely, while I see what's what

Tom waited to feel something, some sort of sensation.

:: you've none of the kinetics or healing :: Isla murmured. :: a bare blip of telepathy though that could become stronger with use. I don't expect you'd be able to initiate contact with someone much beyond, oh, twenty feet

Tom didn't want to be disappointed but there it was.

:: moderately stronger empathy. receiving but not projecting. you're very good at reading people aren't you?

:: I am :: Tom replied, disheartened. :: but I thought it was a skill I'd developed over the years. body language, non-verbal communication

:: it is, my dear, it is. just because you've been using empathy unconsciously doesn't mean you've been cheating somehow

Now Tom could feel something, a faint sensation of... digging? Rummaging? Moving things aside?

:: _well_. you, my lovely, are a pre-cog

Tom froze: on an instinctive, visceral level he knew this to be true just as he knew what Isla was going to say next.

:: you've been using it all your life

:: but I never recognised it as such

:: 'instinct' 'gut reaction' lots of different, non-psionic terms :: Isla was gentle. :: what's your earliest memory of it?

And the memory was there, right at the front.

:: I didn't pull that out of your brain, Tom :: Isla forestalled his suspicion. :: you found it yourself. I just facilitate

Tom wanted to know how, but that could wait. The memory was drawing him in...

... Tom was young, very young. He was in his bedroom upstairs sprawled on the floor playing with his plastic farm animals. The cows were in the cow paddock; the sheep were in the sheep paddock; the chickens were everywhere because they were chickens. A cow or sheep would break away and the farmer and his dog would have to catch them and herd them back to their correct place. Again and again and again. Tom considered extending the paddock fences - the plastic ones that came in the set weren't enough to do the job properly - he could use his legos to make better fences but if the cows and sheep weren't escaping, what would the farmer do...?

A thought popped up in to his mind, an Important thought that made him pause in his play. It was a thought that needed an answer but to do that he'd have to go downstairs to the adults. He didn't want to do that. There was a reason he was here in his room. But this thought was insistent and a bit frightening so...

Tom crept down the stairs, his fingers trailing along the smooth wooden banister. He stood in front of the closed lounge room door and chewed his lip while he gathered his courage. He didn't want to go in. Grandfather was there. But he had to have this thought-question answered.

The room was full of cigarette smoke, which was horrible, and something Mum usually never let happen but Grandfather didn't care about other people's rules. Tom's father was smoking too, though he usually didn't do it inside - _keeping the peace_ he'd said once to Tom, like it was a secret - but he was doing it now because his father was doing it and he felt it was allowed.

"Thomas." Mum smiled at him. "Do you need something?"

"Are you going to send me away?"

"How does he know _that_?"

His grandfather was looking straight at him, hostility and suspicion on his face, something dangerous in the flavour of the question. He didn't like Tom but Tom didn't know why. Better to stay out of the way. 

"He's been listening at doors again, haven't you, Thomas?" Mum said.

Tom wanted to protest at the unfairness of the accusation. He hadn't been listening, he hadn't! But... he could see Mum's expression - his grandfather and father couldn't - and she was looking at him with a sort of pleading.

Tom dropped his head.

"'m sorry." 

It was the only response he could think of that would make him sound guilty without actually admitting to anything. 

"That's a nasty sneaking habit you've got there, boy." His grandfather growled. 

Tom again said nothing, but kept his head down and tried to give the impression of being contrite. It worked on his father all the time.

"Come along, love." Mum stood up and held out her hand. "Let's go and get you something to drink and then you can help me in the garden."

Mum was just as glad to get out of that stinky room as he was, he knew. She didn't like his grandfather either though she was very, very careful about showing it. Tom hated the way his grandfather looked at her, like he was hungry.

The afternoon he spent in the garden with Mum was the best, most fun, Tom could remember. They played, they dug in the dirt - 'weeding' - they talked and talked and laughed. Later, as Tom was lying on the lawn with his head in her lap, watching the clouds, she explained to him what was going to happen.

"You will be going away, Tom, to school. You'll live there a lot of the time but you'll come home for the rest of it." She stroked her fingers through his hair. "Its going to be a great adventure, but it's not going to happen for two birthdays yet."

"Why do I have to go?"

"Tradition." Mum sighed. "Tradition is very important to your father, and your grandfather."

Tom glanced over at the lounge window and saw his father staring out at them, he looked -

... he pulled himself out of the memory: there was a deep wound welling up with sorrow and anger.

:: tradition my arse! :: he rasped. :: he was jealous he wanted me out of the way

Isla said nothing but Tom could feel the warmth of her comfort. He wrestled down his younger self's anguish - he'd deal with it later - and wrenched his attention back to what he'd witnessed. 

:: my grandfather was suspicious that I'd asked about something he thought I shouldn't have known?

:: yes. and your mother deflected

:: she always did :: Tom understood that now. :: did she suspect what I was? did she know? 

He was thinking hard, catching and piecing together the tiny, glittering shards of memory that were floating up. 

:: Claire! she definitely knew about Claire it wasn't my father allowing me to visit, it was all Mum. she was trying to warn me

:: it looks that way

And now with that memory unlocked Tom could begin to spot the points in his life - the bumps of probability - where he'd been able to do or say something to avoid trouble... and the points where he hadn't. _Oh no_... 

Isla stepped in. 

:: it's not your fault they died 

:: but I knew it was going to be bad before heading out I knew I should've said something

:: to who? :: Isla reasoned. :: who could you have spoken too about your suspicions

:: they weren't suspicions!

:: you know that now but back then, it was just a bad feeling

Tom wanted to argue - he remembered how strong the urge had been to not leave the compound, strong enough to almost drag him to his knees when he tried to move, and wrenching enough to make him want to vomit - but he also remembered thinking through the problem logically, calmly, as he'd been trained. He couldn't have divulged anything to his squad because it would've crushed morale; and he couldn't have reported anything to his C.O. because... because he had no concrete intel. Plans weren't changed because of a _bad feeling_.

It didn't matter what Isla said he was responsible for the men under his command. He hadn't ignored his instincts though, Tom could console himself with that. His squad had picked up on his hyper-vigilance and there would've been even more deaths if they hadn't been primed for trouble. 

:: I'm curious as to how you managed to avoid detection by the military psis :: Isla was saying.

:: there was only two of them :: Tom tried to shake off the sticky grey guilt that was forming around the edges of him: he could deal with this _later_ , too. :: and contact was limited

:: yes I suppose they would've had to have caught you in the rare moments you were active :: Isla mused. :: just luck then perhaps. I'm going to follow that up though

Just luck? Or had he known when the psis were going to be around? The implications were unfolding thick and fast: it was going to take some time for him to sort through it all. He couldn't let it swamp him. [ _Chris I need you_ ]

:: what happens now. with me

:: I'll record my analysis

:: it's confidential, yes?

:: absolutely. only two people will officially know the results, myself and the record keeper. access to the records are restricted

:: what about online security

Isla grinned.

:: you can't hack into paper, stored in a concrete bunker in an undisclosed location

:: nothing's digitised?

:: nothing that can identify individuals. your secret is safe, Tom

He wasn't convinced about that: two of Chris' associates had suspected - the doctor and the neurobiologist - and his sister would surely have guessed by now. If he could sense Mehra's mental signature then she, with her lifetime of experience, could sense his. But then, it might not be an issue if it stayed within the psionic community; the problems would start if it went outside of that. Foreknowledge or speculation? [ _Chris, I need you_ ] 

:: sleep now :: Isla's presence was soothing. :: Chris has already dropped off

That was disappointing; he could've made the effort to stay awake for him. _Wait_.

:: what time is it?

:: a little after 1am 

:: we've been at this that long?

:: time-sense is handled by different parts of the brain than where we've been playing. you need to sleep now 

Tom was, all of a sudden, very tired. He might've suspected Isla of influencing him somehow, but no, it wasn't that, just the natural exhaustion that comes after unfamiliar effort. No headache yet, yay.

:: thank you, for your time, Isla

:: my pleasure, Tom

Tom could already feel the muzziness creeping up on him, slurring his words.

:: Chris really isn't going to be able to help me with this, is he? the... the training and such

:: unfortunately no, not the state he's in. plus, pre-cog is a specialised field. don't worry, we'll find someone for you

:: ... okay

:: good night, my dear :: The Diviner's presence was beginning to fade. :: welcome to the family


	29. Chapter 29

Chris knew he was being a passive-aggressive shithead but Tom hadn't just humiliated him, he'd put him in a position of vulnerability too much like the shittier parts of his shitty teenage years. ( _want your dick sucked? Chris'll do it. He sucked mine!_ No, don't go there...) That this vulnerability was brought home to him not two hours after leaving the cell that morning just made him angrier. Maybe those two dickheads were just trying it on; maybe, if push came to shove, Tom's protection might have stopped them doing something that Chris would've had to break their noses for. _Maybe maybe maybe_. Chris avoided conflict - past experience had proved that things got messy if he didn't - but Tom had dumped him right in it, the arsehole.

Chris'd ignored his arsehole cellmate all day, knowing full well that withholding information was the meanest thing he could do. Tom's natural state was strategising, not just long-term, big picture stuff, but a constant assessment of, and adjustment to, changes in his environment. It was almost certainly tied in with his need to be control, and was a big hint towards previous trauma, so not giving him the information he believed he needed to adequately plan was just... mean. Did Chris feel any satisfaction in doing something that was probably messing with Tom's peace of mind? Nope, he felt like a dick, but Tom needed to know there was a fucking limit to what Chris would put up with.

He'd watched the tension in Tom ratchet up over the day but held firm to his resolution even as his instinct was to help, to try and make things better. He squashed that down, just like he tried to ignore the ache in his bones from Tom's physical absence. End result? By the time for lock-in he wasn't in a much better state than Tom. 

Chris was so, so glad Tom broke first, though that didn't stop him gloating just a bit. Tom, to his credit, noticed but didn't say anything. Then Indie unwittingly provided the perfect excuse for him and Tom to get close again, with no loss of face for either of them by being the first one to ask for touch. The easing of off tension as Tom climbed in to bed behind him was... yeah. 

Chris hadn't been sure if he and Indie would be able to communicate through his connection to Tom. It was patchy, like bad radio reception, but it held and being able to converse naturally with his sister soothed a craving he'd been steadfastly ignoring. However...

:: peppermint

:: huh?

:: Hiddleston smells like peppermint

Just for a moment Chris hated his sister, that she could experience that about Tom and he couldn't.

:: no doubt then?

:: nope. and he's not latent either. can't wait to see what Isla finds

Chris' lips twitched at the sarcasm but then Tom's body went rigid behind him, and his attention was wrenched away from his sister. 

Chris held his breath for several anxious seconds while he waited for Tom to breath, and then again while he waited for the next inhale. Five breaths in and Tom had started to relax: only then did Chris turn back to his sister. 

He hadn't realised how hard he'd had to concentrate on the connection with her, until he had to consciously keep mentally still while she reinstated it. 

:: what happened? :: Indie's demand was tinged with concern. :: are you all right?

:: yeah, sorry, Tom was having a reaction to something

He half expected a caustic comment or two, but Indie stayed quiet about his distraction. From then on he tried to keep his focus on his sister, trusting that if there was a problem someone would let him know. 

It was so good to be able to talk freely with Indie. Being cut off from her was top of the list of the things he hated about being limited, that and only getting to see her under supervised scrutiny. If he got out of this alive, Chris vowed - un-limited, and with his sanity intact - he was never going to take this gift of privacy for granted again. 

They kept the conversation light. Indie caught him up with some gossip, and humorously acid observations about the current crop of standards agitating for 'reform', but too soon the gaps between his responses were getting longer and longer.

:: Chris, you should sleep

:: I wanted to stay awake 

:: he'll understand

Would he? Or would Tom come out of the assessment to find Chris asleep and think it was another snub. Chris couldn't fight the tranqs though. He hoped Tom would understand... 

He said goodnight to his sister.

 

It was not quite dawn when Chris woke up: immediately he felt Tom shift behind him.

:: hi

:: hi

Okay, so was Tom going to pay him back for yesterday by withholding his own information?

:: you'll never guess :: Tom said, heavy on the irony. :: I'm psionic. apparently

His hands were curled against Chris' back: there was so much tension in them. 

:: surprised?

:: not as much as I would've been if you hadn't dropped the idea on me beforehand I should thank you for that

Chris lifted his arm; Tom took the invitation and snaked one of those tense hands over his waist. 

:: I wanted to stay awake to be there when you were done :: Chris said, gently trapping Tom's wrist against his body.

Tom kissed the back of his neck, lingering, making Chris shiver.

:: we didn't finish until after 1

:: what did Isla find? if I can ask? you're under no obligation to tell me

Tom was quiet for a moment, long enough for Chris to think that, yes, he wasn't going to say anything.

:: a pinch of telepathy a dash of empathy

There was more. Chris waited. 

:: and... pre-cog

:: no shit! 

That was not something Chris had expected. He wriggled around so he was facing Tom. His ribs protested, but not enough to distract him.

:: that's, wow :: He beamed. :: how much do you know about it?

:: fuck all. or rather, just what's common knowledge I suppose

:: so the inaccuracies, lies and exaggerations?

Tom's smile was rueful, but Chris was grinning like a maniac, he knew. This was huge. Precogs were uncommon, and if it turned out that Tom had a useful level of skill...? Well.

:: just a hunch. ahahaha I'm so funny :: Chris wasn't burbling, just thinking fast. :: I reckon you'll be paired up with Tyson Belling for training

:: you know him?

:: he was one of my instructors when I was doing mentor training

:: good sort?

:: very. patient, thorough, good-humoured. very knowledgeable

Tom looked thoughtful.

:: he's a precog?

:: yep. he'll be able to explain it all to you

Tom pushed forward with his thigh, connecting with Chris' crotch in a distracting manner.

:: you can't?

:: shit no. it's one of the most complicated abilities. there's... branches and caveats and so many _if/then_ statements that are unique to each of you. so I've been told

Tom rolled his eyes.

:: of course I couldn't have something tidy and straightforward

Chris reached up to stroke his cheek, fingernails scratching lightly through the stubble.

:: that would be completely out of character

Tom sighed and moved closer, until their lips were just brushing.

:: you're excited

:: I am

:: were you able to talk to your sister?

Chris was getting used to Tom's ability to shift between subjects without warning.

:: yes. thank you

:: will you be able to do that with anyone else? 

Chris thought about it for a moment.

:: probably not. I think it only worked because our sibling bond is very strong, and well, so is Indie. she can punch through a lot of resistance

:: I'm happy to offer my... services? again if you'd like

:: thank you :: Chris pressed their foreheads together. :: it was... so good to be able to do something so normal

The lights flicked on. Tom sighed, then his eyes opened wide.

:: I've just had a horrible thought. the only time, really, I can do any training is after lock-in. that'll cut in to our 'special time'

He appeared to be genuinely put out. It made Chris smile. 

:: special time? I like that. nicely euphemistic

He rolled his hips against Tom's.

:: oh fuck no, don't :: Tom grumbled. :: can't go out there with an erection

Though he didn't look particularly upset about it, even wriggled closer before cupping Chris' cheek and angling his head down to kiss him.

:: I am really sorry :: Long fingers covered the mark on Chris' throat. :: I hadn't realised you'd bruise so spectacularly

:: just don't do it again

Tom looked like he was about to say something, then simply nodded.

~~~oOo~~~

:: mr hiddleston

Tom twitched violently enough to almost spill his cup of tea over his toast. He covered his reaction with a cough, noting that Biggsy had glanced straight at him before immediately dropping his eyes again.

The floral scent was back.

:: ms mehra

:: sorry to interrupt your breakfast. your trainer will be in contact this evening around 10.30

:: Tyson Belling?

There was a pause and Tom hid his smirk behind his cup: he'd surprised her.

:: yes

:: Chris told me he was the most likely 

_Hah, take that_.

:: could you say hello to Chris for me?

:: will do

:: thank you. enjoy your day

Tom nudged his foot up against Chris', while smiling at whatever it was Old Arthur was expounding upon.

:: your sister says 'hi', and yes Tyson Belling will be taking me on

:: I wondered why you jumped :: Chris sounded amused. :: you get used to it

Tom ::sighed.

:: roll on the day. I can't be twitching all over the place for no apparent reason. it's a very unprofessional look

 

Tom made it through, carefully covering his nervous anticipation with a near perfect outward show of his usual sardonic briskness. Chris, he was relieved to see, didn't ruin the effect by behaving any differently than normal. Again, nobody said anything about the mark on his throat but Old Arthur gave him an exaggerated wink, holding up his hands in mock surrender when Chris flashed a warning glare his way.

Today at least Chris was willing to share information. He answered Tom's questions as thoroughly as he could but in reality there wasn't much he could actually tell him about what might happen with Tyson, beyond the basics of generalised training. It was frustrating.

 

The cell door clicked shut for lock-in. 

:: do you want to stay in your own bed tonight? :: Chris asked. :: for privacy

He looked as unhappy about that as Tom instinctually felt. 

:: I'd rather not :: He nudged Chris with his shoulder. :: hey I've got an hour before my 'appointment' wanna fool around?

Chris laughed out loud then Tom found himself on his back, faster than he'd anticipated, faster than he was comfortable with, to be honest, but he bent his knees and opened his thighs so that Chris could settle over him. They hadn't got undressed for bed yet.

:: going to make me come in my pants?

Chris was matching him smirk for smirk.

:: is that a challenge?

:: yeah go on

And he did. With some dedicated effort and Tom's active participation, they were both sweating heavily by the time Tom's climax prompted Chris', his thighs wrapped around Chris' waist, his fingers tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, holding him in place, trying not to think too much about how he was enjoying Chris' weight on him. 

:: how's your back? :: Chris asked.

:: it's fine 

Tom was also developing a profound appreciation for being able to talk without having to stop kissing. But Chris was pulling away.

:: let me up :: He chuckled as Tom tightened his octopus hold. :: and we can wash. do you really want to sleep like this?

Chris shifted against him, making Tom's nose wrinkle at the sensation of cooling semen squelching about beneath the prison's polyester heavy uniform.

:: good point

The lights were off so they stripped and wiped each other down in the near dark, finally finding themselves standing quietly in front of the sink, face to face, skin to skin. Chris' arms were draped over his shoulders, his cheek against Tom's hair. Tom rested his cheek on Chris' shoulder, wrapping his arms loosely around his waist. A small, distant part of him pointed out that this post-coital affection wasn't usual, even with Elyse. 

:: nervous about meeting Tyson?

:: meeting him? no. what that will lead to and how my life is probably going to change? yes

This... candour wasn't usual either, Tom thought ruefully. He should step back to an emotionally safe distance. He should protect himself. He should stop giving away so much to Chris.

:: you're smart and adaptable :: Chris kissed his temple. :: you'll be okay

At that moment Tom chose to believe him. He'd deal with the consequences later...

 

Chris had dropped off to sleep - after Tom's assurance that he'd be fine - and Tom was at that point of drifting consciousness himself.

He became aware of a chill like Autumn morning, not unpleasant.

:: mr Hiddleston?

:: mr Belling?

:: the same. call me Tyson. welcome to the family

Tom smiled.

:: thank you. I'm Tom

:: right, Tom, the first thing you need to do is prepare yourself for the ' _oh, didn't you see that coming_ ' jokes

:: it's already started

Tom had caught Chris' 'hunch' comment but hadn't deigned to respond. 

Tyson laughed.

:: Chris? yeah he's a shit-stirrer

He sounded so... fond of Chris that Tom was immediately predisposed to like him.

This was just a preliminary visit, for Tyson to have a chat to Tom, assess what he already knew already, sort out training priorities. 

He asked Tom to demonstrate his shielding, and appeared to be impressed though commented that he was 'wide open' and they'd need to fix that. Tom remembered the look on Chris' face when he'd shut him out... but shielding was vital, he didn't want to leave himself open to infiltration or attack. There was probably a way around it but Tom was reluctant to quiz Tyson as he wasn't sure where his new mentor stood in the knowledge of Chris' circumstances.

:: how do I contact someone? telepathically :: Tom asked.

Tyson hummed.

:: you don't have much range, do you?

:: twenty feet was the distance quoted

:: you won't be able to do much then. your range can increase if you have a link with someone. but otherwise there's always the telephone

Tom laughed, despite his annoyance with himself. If he'd grown up with a knowledge of what he could do, if he hadn't had to suppress it all, would he be better, more powerful? 

:: all right then :: Tyson was cheerful. :: ready for 'Introduction to Precognition'?

 _Complicated_ , Chris had said: _highly individualised_ , Tyson corrected.

The ability could manifest in numerous ways, focusing on oneself, another person, a group of people, a particular phenomenon, a particular street corner, an entire country. Add to that the subset divinations of clairevoyance - 'seeing' what was happening at a distant location as it was happening - and psychometry - sensing what had happened, usually through an object or in an area - it was a glorious mish-mash of possibilities that Tyson seemed thrilled to explore. 

And the act of revealing a possible future to someone could change the outcome. Did one keep silent and wait and see? Knowing that you'd right about something but with no way to prove it? Or risk being wrong? Fortune Tellers were considered flaky at best, charlatans at worst for a reason.

And then how did you know what was a real prophecy? Some of Tom's training would be dedicated to divining, developing or refining the signs of a true reading. 

:: I get a sort of flutter behind my sternum when something is true :: Tyson offered, by way of example. :: if that's not there then I know it's my ego, or my imagination projecting

Tom needed to learn how to get in to the headspace where he could recall memories, significant moments, so they could be examined for clues without distraction. It was a long process, made longer because of the limited amount of time they could spend on it together.

Therefore, Tom's homework was to continue to practice his shielding, and begin learning to meditate, Just five, ten minutes at a time if he could. Chris could probably help him with techniques for that, though as Tyson pointed out, he hadn't actually been asked about it so best to not assume. Tom though, was fairly certain Chris would be willing to help...

And just like that an hour and a half had vanished and Tyson had to go. He'd be back at the same time the next night, and every night for the following week while they established a routine. 

:: I know this might feel somewhat overwhelming :: Tyson said: _understatement_ , Tom thought. :: but it's also going to be very exciting

Tyson sounded like he actually believed that, but 'excitement' wasn't what Tom was feeling right now. No matter, early days, he'd handle this like he did all new situations, with at least an outward show of confidence. 

_Fake it 'til you make it._

He should translate that in to Latin and add it to his personal crest.


	30. Chapter 30

Tom was exhausted and Chris clearly had something he wanted to say about that.

" _Don't._ " Tom warned him, irritated and defensive.

"You have to rest."

"When?" Tom scowled. 

_When indeed?_ There was too much he had to do, too much he had to have control of right now. 

Chris scowled back at him.

"You haven't told Tyson about this headache have you?"

 _This fucking headache_ , which was why they were verbalising even in the privacy of their fucking cell, because any sort of ::contact just fucking hurt.

Chris' frown deepened at Tom's stubborn silence. 

"You have to tell him. He can't help if you don't, and don't tell me it's not a problem!" Chris growled, before Tom could respond. "It bloody is a problem! Three days you've had it and it's not getting better." 

Technically Tom'd had it for five days; Chris had only heard about it three days ago.

"It's fine." Tom grumbled. "I can handle it."

"You don't have to handle it, you idiot!" Chris visibly reined in his temper with a deep breath, palms down and flat on his thighs, fingers spread. "It's okay to ask for help."

Tom didn't need help, he just needed time, time to prepare for the inevitable tits-up that was going to happen. This wasn't a 'prediction', it was his lived experience. Everything went tits up eventually. It was simply... good strategy to be as ready as possible, as quickly as possible. The delay he was experiencing in achieving this goal was frustrating.

"Don't you dare tell me you don't need help." Chris warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it, petal."

Chris ignored the biting condescension. 

"You're pushing yourself too hard, it's only been a week. You can't expect to have a handle on all this already."

Tom would beg to differ; see the aforementioned 'tits up' exigency.

"Understanding and exploring your abilities is going to be a lifelong project." Chris continued. "There is no end point."

"I know all this." Tom closed his eyes tight. He could feel his hands curling in to fists on his lap. He muttered: "I just... hate feeling vulnerable."

Tom kept his eyes closed: did Chris understand how big an admission that was?

Chris' hand wrapped around the back of his neck, warm and steadying. Tom relaxed fractionally in to the grip.

"I know." Tom could hear Chris smile as he gave him a little shake. "I understand. But tell Tyson what's going on, please. it'd be such a waste if you gave yourself brain damage." 

Tom opened his eyes and snorted.

"Brain damage?"

"Yup. Terrible thing. Brain muscles tear and leak out your ears." Chris' expression was so, so exaggeratedly sincere. 

"Right. And you were considered a good influence on the impressionable minds under your tutelage, were you?"

Chris laughed, but didn't relinquish his grip. Tom felt no inclination to move away from it: there was safety here, and support, much as he wanted to deny he needed any such thing.

"All right, I'll... mention it."

"Good." Chris leant forward and kissed his forehead, just a glancing brush of his lips as Tom's eyes flashed to their open door. No witnesses, thank fuck, he didn't need that sort of aggravation. Rattray had gone and his little gang had fractured but that didn't mean Tom was in the clear. There would always be threats, and challenges, that needed to be recognised, assessed and conquered. Some he could see coming a mile away, some...

"Shit." Chris had frowned at a visibly nervous Biggsy, four days ago. "You're a sensitive."

"I've said nothing to no one, I swear." Biggsy had been fervent, panic flashing through his usually stoic demeanour, even as Tom had said:

"A what?"

"A non-psi, a standard, who knows, somehow, when there's psionic activity." Chris explained to Tom while not taking his eyes off of Biggsy. "When did you first notice what was going on, Biggsy?"

"A - a few days after you started sharing a cell."

He was doing his best to maintain his usual calm, but...

Tom had never consciously done this before. He focused his attention on his lieutenant, sort of, in the skewed kind of way he'd focused on then found his and Chris' link: it was like seeing something out of the corner of your eye...

_There. Whoa._

Biggsy was scared. Really scared. Of Chris? Or of being found out?

But he was blinking at Tom now, and this was how it'd all started, when Tom had finally made the connection between Biggsy's twitches and his, Tom's, psionic use.

"Why are you scared?" Tom asked him.

Biggsy looked like he wanted to deny it but then he straightened up, pulled his shoulders back.

"You trying to read me, boss? That's a bit rude." 

"Just your emotions." Tom brazened it through, thankful he wasn't as prone to blushing as he'd been in school, though the look Chris was giving him made him feel like a misbehaving student. "Sorry."

"'s all right." Biggsy glanced between Chris and himself. "You new at this, boss?"

Tom rolled his eyes.

"What gave it away?"

"Most psis are subtle about what they're doing."

Tom wasn't sure if he'd been insulted or not, but Chris cut across him before he could think of a response.

"Are there any others in here?"

 _Shit_. Tom's anxiety hitched up another notch.

"Not that I've spotted." Biggsy replied to Chris, back to his all-business self. "And I've been keepin' an eye out." He turned back to Tom. "Boss, you really need to guard that shit."

"Is this better?"

Tom had put up his shields, and though he couldn't see Chris' face he'd felt the pulse of anguish, _through the shield_. Was he getting better at this?

"Much." Biggsy nodded approval. "I'm only gettin' an echo of it, and that's only 'cause I know it's there."

"What sort of range have you got?" Chris was asking him.

Biggsy lifted a burly shoulder. 

"'bout ten feet, normally? Only spotted the boss from a distance 'cause he was so fucking loud."

Yeah, there was the barest hint of a smirk flavouring the man's bland expression. Tom narrowed his eyes in the barest hint of a warning.

"How did you find out you could spot us?" Chris asked.

Biggsy, surprisingly, broke in to a huge grin, cracked teeth and all.

"My baby cousin. First noticed the buzz when she was about five."

"What did you do?" Tom asked.

"Nothing. I didn't want her to get any hassle." Biggsy shrugged. "Well, not _nothing_ , I tried to drop quiet hints to her dad but the dense teabag never picked up on 'em. Completely taken by surprise he was, when she was 'discovered'."

"What's her name?" Chris asked.

"Evie."

"Longmuir?" Chris grinned when Biggsy nodded. "No shit! I taught her."

Biggsy grinned right back.

"I know. She talked about you a lot."

"How's she doing?"

"Couldn't say. Been estranged from that side of the family for a couple of years now."

"That's a shame. Evie's a great kid." Chris dropped his voice to little more than a murmur. "Look, would you be interested in signing up for a study?"

"With your lot? Dunno."

"Completely voluntary, and anonymous. No consequences if you say no." He indicated Tom with a tilt of his head. "We won't mention you to anyone." 

Tom's inner bastard pragmatist scowled at giving up any sort of leverage but he held his tongue, because there was a little, tiny, bitty part of him that glowed warm at Chris' 'we' statement. 

"What sort of study? Sensitives?"

"Yeah." Chris confirmed. "We don't know much about you, and you tend be elusive."

Biggsy eyed him for a moment then sighed.

"I'll think about it..."

 

So, yeah, finding out there were such things - threats - as sensitives, Tom had been further incentivised to get himself sorted out. He'd worked harder, ignoring the pain continuing to blossom behind his eyes. 

After Biggsy's revelations, Tom and Chris had agreed that they'd need to adjust the style of their interactions, to minimise the possibility of discovery if there were any more of the buggers about. Chris had wanted him to shield all the time, as far as possible but Tom had flatly refused. Then, before they could get in to a full scale argument about it, he'd swallowed his discomfort and told Chris precisely why.

"If I'm shielding we can't communicate. Fuck that. You need it. So do I." He'd hurried through that last bit of brutal honesty, repressing a wince. "So no, I'm not going to do it."

"Tom..." Chris didn't have the same hangups about expressing emotion that he did. 

Tom looked down, avoiding witnessing Chris getting teary-eyed. It was one thing to get all soppy once the lights were out but quite another to succumb during the day with the cell door open.

They'd compromised. Tom would shield when they were out in gen pop, or anywhere they didn't have absolute privacy, and he and Chris would stick to verbal communication during those times. When they were alone they could utilize their preferred method.

The sustained shielding was harder than Tom liked to admit, and probably responsible for the headache continuing to hang around, but on the plus side the restrictions on their communication had given Chris and Tom's private interactions a deeper level of intensity, and intimacy. That was until recently when the severity of Tom's headache prevented even that.

So Tom was exhausted and pissed off, and combative with the irritation. And Chris had had just about enough of trying to make him see sense.

"You'd better mention it to Tyson, tonight, or I will."

"How?"

Chris held up a finger.

"One phone call, smartarse."

Damn, Tom had actually forgotten about that option. 

"Yeah, all right." He wasn't pouting.

"But you're going to rest before you speak to him." Chris pointed at his bed. "Lie down."

"Oh, I love it when you're bossy." Tom sniped, but he lay down, facing the wall, and was asleep before Chris had settled behind him...

 

:: Tom?

He startled awake to the taste of caramel.

:: yes? Isla?

:: good evening! may I speak with you?

:: sure :: It was dark in the cell, too dark to read the face of his watch. :: what time is it?

Chris was a lovely, heavy weight against his back, fast asleep and breathing softly. Tom just wanted to somehow wrap himself in the psi, shelter there, forget everything.

:: quarter to ten. sorry, were you asleep?

:: it's fine :: The headache seemed to have receded a little. :: how are you?

:: back in England, for my sins. I thought I'd pop in and see how you were doing... Tom?

He'd left too long a pause.

:: I'm... not doing as well as I think I should

:: as you think you should? :: Her amusement was tinged with concern. :: all right. talk to me. what's going on?

And it all just blurted out, like something undigestible that'd been held in too long; the exhaustion, the frustration, the irritation, the anger. Holy shit he was _angry_! Tom hadn't actually realised he was angry, let alone how angry he was. Outwardly nothing had changed, but inwardly his life had been violently wrenched upside down and shoved sideways. He was disoriented, floundering, seemingly unable to right himself and get his bearings. Tom felt like he had no control, and he was so fucking _angry_.

:: I'm sorry, Tom, I should've followed you up sooner and I should've organised support for you

:: support? 

Tom's throat was raw but he wasn't crying, thankfully. Also, the headache had started to ebb as he'd vented his spleen. That probably shouldn't have been a surprise.

:: counseling

:: I don't need -

:: yes you do. the divining dredged up a lot of emotional silt and I just left you to deal with it

:: [I don't need help] I wasn't alone I have Chris

Isla sighed.

:: that's probably why I did it. because 'you had Chris', and he's a counselor. but he shouldn't be your counselor

:: why not?

Other than you were expected to 'open up' to your counselor and there was shit Tom didn't want to share with Chris. 

:: he's emotionally involved. so are you

:: ... how do you know?

Tom struggled with a moment of elated terror. He didn't want to know. He did want to know. Knowing would make it real. _It wasn't real_. 

:: I have eyes :: Isla chuckled. :: I can see your bond

She mentioned Tyson and then he was suddenly there. Between the three of them apparently they nutted out some sort of schedule, agreement. Something. Tom wasn't paying attention.

It wasn't real.

 _It was_.

What did he do now? He didn't want this responsibility. Having feelings for... for someone. Other than friendship. Right-angled to obsession. Squared to need. 

He was hedging around the concept, he couldn't even bring himself to say it out loud.

The pain in his head had moved to his chest, no, his stomach. _Why was he sweating_?

:: Tom, are you all right? :: Isla asked.

:: yes just tired I'll be fine everything is going to be fine thank you for your help both of you

:: okay :: Tyson sounded cautious. :: you rest now. I'll check in with you tomorrow night 

:: yes thank you :: Tom wanted them both gone. 

:: I'll look in to counselors :: Isla said.

:: yep, fine, good night. thank you again

Tom shut them out, he wasn't sure how, but Tyson and Isla were no longer there with him. That probably wasn't polite but so what?

:: ChrisChris:: He ::whispered to his sleeping... friend.

There was no response, but he hadn't really been expecting one, and honestly that was for the best because Tom knew, just knew, that if Chris had been awake then there was a solid chance he'd make an absolute tit of himself. Like a stupid boy with a stupid crush.

For fuck's sake. What was his life?

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies in advance if this doesn't go anywhere.


End file.
